


Mean Grease: The High School Musical

by RedTeamShark



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Accidental Kiss, Alternate Universe - 2000s, Alternate Universe - High School, American Football, Artist Steve Rogers, Asthmatic Steve Rogers, Fights, Fusion - Grease, Fusion - High School Musical, Fusion - Mean Girls, Gen, Halloween Costumes, Homeschooling, Long Overdue Grief, Musicals, Never Have I Ever, On-Again/Off-Again Relationship, School Dances, Senior year, Skiing, Spring Break, Underage Drinking, Underage Smoking, bed sharing, public school
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:28:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 68,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26176471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedTeamShark/pseuds/RedTeamShark
Summary: After spending years at sea with his mother, being taught by her, it’s time for Steve Rogers to face the biggest challenge of his life: Public school.Coming in as the new kid senior year is bad enough, but at least he’ll go in knowing one person. Steve met James “Bucky” Barnes during summer vacation and they hit it off, becoming fast friends. So why is his friend acting so differently? And why are his classmates warning him to stay away from James and the guys he hangs out with?(What happens when I take on a project I shouldn’t, and combineGrease,Mean Girls, and a dash ofHigh School Musicalin an MCU blender? This. This happens. Dedicated to yet another one of my many enablers.)
Relationships: Bruce Banner & Clint Barton & Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov & Tony Stark & Thor, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes & Brock Rumlow, James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, Jane Foster/Thor, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Tony Stark, Sharon Carter/Steve Rogers
Comments: 27
Kudos: 26





	1. August

**Author's Note:**

> In case you missed it, I'm Old (tm) so I set this story in the early 2000s, when I was in high school, because I don't know what high schoolers these days are into. Is it Vine? Is it overthrowing oppressive government regimes? We Just Don't Know.
> 
> This story comes with musical cues because just writing the damn thing wasn't enough for me! Enjoy a selection of mostly classic rock with a handful of early 2000s throwbacks.

He liked the beaches at sunset, the time of day when tourists and locals alike were departing from the waves in favor of dinner and drinks. With the skies turning from blue to pink to deep purple, with the waters going from crystal clear to shadowed, he liked to go down with his sketchbook, sit on the rocks, and draw from his mind’s eye. His sketchbook would flutter in an occasional gust off the water, the loose pages normally tamped down with a paperclip.

The day had been hectic, and truth be told, all he’d wanted to do since lunch was go down to the water and unwind. For most teenagers, summer was endless lazy days, or maybe a job mowing lawns, but he’d spent the morning helping his mother grade tests and his afternoon taking his own exams, finishing up the equivalent of his junior year of high school. He’d begged off helping make dinner in favor of going down to the beach, had taken off at nearly a run when permission was finally granted.

He loved his momma, she was his whole world, but he liked the alone time to decompress. She understood that. There wasn’t alone time on the boat.

The persistent breeze was currently the only cause of his stress, the pages of his sketchbook fluttering, loose papers trying their best to escape. He clamped a hand down and tried to focus on drawing, but it seemed like the wind picked up the second he became distracted from the task. This time he wasn’t fast enough, a few pages catching the breeze and flying away. He scrambled up after them, nearly stumbling into a figure that stood near the rocks.

“Ah, sorry-- _Désolé monsieur_ \--” The French stumbled off his tongue, too used to English, his eyes tracking across the sand for where his drawings had gone.

Only to widen as he saw them in the hands of this stranger, his cheeks flushing immediately. “ _Je vous remercie_.” He held his hand out, offering a crooked smile. “ _Je peux les reprendre._ ”

“You speak English?” the stranger asked, turning the pages in his hands, looking over the drawings on them.

“Yeah. I can take those back, really, they’re just--”

“They’re good. You drew all of these?” His eyes narrowed in scrutiny, flipping through the loose pages briefly.

Immediately, he felt his cheeks flush. “They’re just sketches… I like to work on them in my free time…” He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the weight of a stranger looking at his silly little doodles.

“We were in Paris earlier this week, at the Louvre. These are better than anything in there.”

“Now you’re just making fun of me.” Still, when he held his hand out this time, the stranger passed back the pages. He tucked them carefully into his notebook, smiling a little more confidently as he met the other teen’s eyes.

And this stranger was another teenager, if he had to guess. His height, probably close to his age, certainly not a local. Most of the people he spent time with were his mother’s research assistants and colleagues, those well into their twenties at the minimum. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been around people his own age. “My name’s Steve,” he blurted out, shoving the sketchbook under his left arm and holding out his right hand. Sarah Rogers hadn’t raised him without manners.

The other teen looked at it for a moment, before shaking it briefly, a little awkwardly. “I’m… Bucky.” He reached up, brushing some of his long dark hair behind his ear. “So, did your parents drag you on the grand European family vacation, too? You don’t sound French.”

Steve smiled, shaking his head briefly. “No, we’re living here for the summer. My mom’s covering a class at the university. We usually live…” He trailed off, shifting his weight. It was hard to explain where he usually lived. “You’re… on vacation?”

“Yeah, summer break from school before my senior year. My family wanted to do something together, and,” Bucky shrugged, waving his hand vaguely. “Europe.”

“So… how long are you in Marseille?”

“The rest of the month. We finished the whole guided tour thing and came here because my mom has family here. So we’re staying with them for a while, down at uh… Actually, I have no idea where. I’ve been pretty lost since I got off the plane in London.” Bucky laughed sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck. “I told my folks I was going for a walk like two hours ago, I’m kinda surprised they haven’t sent out a search party for me.”

“Well… I know my way around the city pretty well. I can walk with you until something looks familiar?” Steve offered, already starting away from the rocks and up towards the city streets. Marseille was a city of narrow, winding streets, back alleys, and few road signs. And yet it was easier to navigate than the open waters. They were called landmarks for a reason, after all. “Do you remember anything that’s near your family’s house?”

“It’s near a campus, like for a college or something. My aunt has been complaining because the new semester starts soon and all the street parking is going to be taken up by students.” Bucky shrugged one shoulder half-heartedly. “There’s also a place that sells crepes but that seems less than helpful because everywhere around here sells crepes.”

Near a campus, a crepe place… Steve’s eyebrows raised. “Do they sell chocolate crepes?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

He laughed, short and sharp. “We’re practically neighbors. The college provided us with an apartment near campus. I can at least get you back that far, see if anything starts looking familiar.”

They talked as they walked, easy conversation. Steve was fascinated by the aspect of Europe as a vacation. He’d been to various port cities in various countries between excursions on his mother’s research vessel, but he’d rarely done tourist things. Aside from a few winters in the Alps, he’d never gone far inland for long. Bucky told him all about the tour of the Vatican, about double decker busses in London, about art museums and ancient castles. And Steve found himself opening up, talking about life at sea, even allowing himself the indulgence of complaining. He’d never complain to his momma, but to Bucky… it didn’t feel out of place to gripe a little. Mostly about the difficulty of transitioning back to walking on land after months on the water.

“Oh, hey, this is my street,” Bucky cut in, looking around in awe. “I have no idea how to get back to the beach, but at least my mom’s not gonna have the cops out looking for me.” He paused, giving Steve a grin. “Thanks.”

“Yeah, no problem.” They stood for a moment, awkward silence hanging between them. Most people that he knew saw Steve as a kid, as his mother’s constant tag-along. Someone his own age, though… Steve swallowed hard. “Hey, if you want--we could explore the city tomorrow? I’m done with my exams, so I’ve got a few free weeks before Momma--b-before Mom gets me started on my senior year of high school.” Dammit, he’d slipped up. Kids his age didn’t call their mothers ‘momma’ in front of other kids. Did they?

If it was weird, Bucky didn’t comment. He shrugged again, a casual up-and-down of his shoulders with his hands buried in the pockets of his shorts. “I got nothin’ else to do. Meet at this corner at like ten?”

“Yeah, that--that sounds good. I’ll be here.” With a grin, Steve hurried off, waving over his shoulder before he rounded a corner towards his own street. That was easy. That was--

That was having a friend. Someone his own age to hang out with.

He was practically skipping as he came in the door for dinner.

* * *

Steve was halfway out the door when his momma’s voice froze his steps. From her office, calling his name. He shut the front door of their apartment, backtracking his steps and pushing the cracked door of her office open the rest of the way. “Yeah, Momma?”

She looked tired, her hand buried in her hair, glasses slipping off the end of her nose. There was a scatter of papers across her desk. Still, the smile she gave him was sunny. “I got my assignment for next year. Georgia.”

Georgia? That wasn’t even on the Mediterranean. “Tbilisi?” Steve guessed, leaning on the back of the chair. “Are you working with a university again?”

“Nice try, smart guy. Atlanta. We’re going to the state, not the country.” His face must have blanked, because she laughed. “Atlanta, Georgia, USA, Steve.”

“Wait, as in--back home?” ‘Home,’ somehow still home even if it’d been almost a decade since he’d spent any significant time there. They’d left New York shortly after--they’d left New York for Europe and its history and opportunity. Left the American public education system for what his mother could teach him. “I’m still gonna learn from you, right?”

“If you want to. Or… it wouldn’t hurt, you know, to go to a real school. Make some real friends, kids your own age. Maybe… Maybe gain a little independence, a little perspective for when you choose a college.” The tired look was back on her face, tinged with sadness. “I’ve done a lot to teach you, but I feel like I haven’t been letting you grow up.”

“Momma, don’t… you’ve been great, this whole thing has been amazing. I’ve learned way more than I would at a regular school, right?” How many kids his age knew how to brace a ship for ten foot swells in a raging storm? Probably not many of them.

“Everything except how to talk to people your age. You’ve got that friend now, though, so maybe you’re not completely hopeless.”

That pulled a startled laugh from him, but Steve still nodded. “Not completely. I’ll think about it, okay? And hey, speaking of Bucky, we’re supposed to get down to the docks and watch the fishing vessels come in. I better go, he’ll get lost without me.” He pushed himself off the chair, heading out the door.

“Don’t forget your inhaler! Love you!”

“Love you too, Momma!” One hand patted his pocket, feeling the bulk of his inhaler.

America, public school, college… It whirled through Steve’s mind as he hurried down to the corner he’d met Bucky at every day for the last week. His momma would keep homeschooling him if he asked, but… maybe public school would be worth a shot. He could ask Bucky what it was like. If they weren’t going to be on the water, there wasn’t a big reason he shouldn’t give it a try.

The skip dropped out of his step the minute he saw Bucky--looking down, shoulders hunched in, hands crammed in his pockets and one scuffed sneaker kicking pebbles into the gutter. Steve’s artist eye took it all in, the lines of posture that said something was wrong, and his steps slowed down accordingly. “Hey.” Not the exuberant greeting he’d been planning, much more subdued, his hand clapping gently onto Bucky’s arm. “What’s up?”

“My sister got a scholarship.”

“That’s good news?”

“For her. She’s going to play soccer at the private school. ‘Cept that school starts two weeks earlier than mine, so we’re packing up and flying back tomorrow, now. Not at the end of the month.”

Steve sucked in a slow breath, processing the words. “Oh.” He glanced around, almost expecting his momma to materialize and give him the dickens for the next word out of his mouth. “Shit.”

Bucky laughed, nodding. “Shit is right. I’ve been having more fun hanging out with you than any of my friends back home. And being back there is just gonna remind me that I’ve got school to finish.”

“Well…” Tomorrow, Bucky was leaving _tomorrow_. The one friend his own age that he’d made, gone just like that. Might as well have been imaginary. “Come on,” Steve decided, grabbing Bucky’s arm more firmly and tugging him along. “Something you’ve gotta see before you go, then.”

“If it’s the docks I’m not really--”

“What kind of idiot do you think I am, that I’d insist on you seeing the docks on your last day in Marseille? _Tu as le QI d’une huitre_.1”

“ _Con comme une valise sans poignée_ 2, Steve.” Bucky snorted laughter, shaking his head. “My mom was convinced that you taught me a bunch of French curse words, not terrible insults.”

“There’s three things you’re supposed to learn in every language: how to ask if someone speaks your native language, how to ask for the bathroom, and how to insult someone in hilariously inadequate ways.”

They wound their way through the city, laughing and shoving as they went. Steve’s almost infallible sense of direction only left him backtracking once or twice, but if Bucky noticed he elected not to comment on it. They stopped as they reached manicured grass and an imposing stone structure, a tower into the sky looming over them.

“A lot of old European cities are like this, with a big church at the center. So that everyone can be close to God, or watched over, or something.”

“You brought me all the way out here to give me a sermon?” Bucky asked, cocking one eyebrow and looking up at the aged stone face of the church. “I’m not _that_ much of a heathen.”

“And I’m not that much of a saint. This church isn’t actively used for religious purposes anymore, it’s a historical landmark. I read about it a few years back.” Steve grabbed his hand, pulling him to the entrance and inside. Past the exhibits on the history of the building and the area, past the models of what the town used to look like. Past the information plaque about the 502 steps that led up to the bell tower, and right onto those uneven stone steps.

They climbed the narrow stairs, pressing against the cool stone walls as people going down squeezed by them, voices echoing up and down the dim passageway. The hot summer of the Mediterranean couldn’t penetrate the old building’s thick walls, leaving the inside cool and slightly damp, a musty, earthy smell coming from the old stones.

Finally, huffing for breath, they reached the top. Steve stopped and dug for his inhaler, taking a puff before cramming it back into his pocket.

“Think I might need a hit of that,” Bucky gasped out beside him, bent double with his hands on his knees. “Oh my god, tell me this place has an elevator for the way down.”

“I wish.” Steve tugged him forward more slowly, to the center of the room. The bell was no longer in the tower, but a plaster model of it hung over their heads, swaying gently in the breeze from the open archways.

Bucky turned slowly, his mouth falling open, his eyes widening with awe. “Holy…” He looked around, his voice lowering. “ _Holy shit._ ”

“Heathen,” Steve whispered back, nudging him to keep turning, following his gaze around the room--and more importantly, the view beyond the tower. The city sprawled away from them in every direction, buildings fading out to green pastures of farmland. As they completed their turn, however, the view beyond the city changed, the sharp blue of the sea cutting off the urban sprawl. So bright in the midafternoon it made them squint, eyes watering against its brilliance. Bucky’s arm draped over Steve’s shoulders, pulling him into a short, rough hug.

“Thanks.”

“Yeah… yeah.”

They moved apart slightly, went to the arched window and looked out, tracking ships as they passed or came to the harbor. “What’s it like?” Bucky asked, cracking into the silence between them. “Being… out there.”

Steve considered it, tapping his fingers against the smooth stone wall. “Boring,” he finally declared, earning a snort of laughter. “Until it’s not. It’s days and days of me doing homework and trying not to be in the way while everyone else works. Nothing to look at but ocean in every direction. And then…” And then, clear as day in his mind, the echoing shout. _Blow at six o’clock!_ And everyone had rushed to the stern of the research vessel, seen the single sperm whale in the moments before it dove back down. The excitement over algae blooms. His mother happily going on about plankton counts to anyone who would listen. Life below the waves, glimpsed by the group bobbing on the surface. Steve shrugged. “Y’know, then something happens and everyone gets excited about it.”

“I wouldn’t mind going out on a boat… spending time so far away from everything…” Bucky sighed, pushing off the wall. “Come on, let’s start heading back down. If we start now, we just might make it before dark.”

“Only because you’re slowing me down.”

Though, of course, it was Steve that slowed them down, having to stop halfway and sit until his chest loosened up, his breathing evened out. Bucky sat beside him, quiet and thoughtful, one hand warm against the back of Steve’s neck. “I wish I wasn’t going back.”

“What?”

“I just… it’s dumb, but… I dunno. I feel more like _me_ and less like who everyone _wants_ me to be, hanging out with you. Ugh, that doesn’t make any sense, huh?”

Steve raised his shoulders in a shrug, feeling Bucky’s hand lift and then resettle on his skin. “Not really. I mean, why not just be you?”

“It’s complicated. You’re lucky, your school is just you and your mom. Mine is like four thousand other kids who all expect each other to fall into certain crowds.”

He considered it, trying to imagine--any of that, really. His mom’s research assistants weren’t _kids_ , but they were all sorts who fit together nicely. The professors and field experts she had over for dinner, too. “What crowd would I be in?”

“Nerdy artists, I think. Not quite ‘draws anime’ type, but you’d definitely be considered an art freak.”

“So what’re you?”

Bucky shook his head, standing up again and hauling Steve to his feet. They continued the trek down, finally hitting level ground again and making their way out of the old church. The silence was companionable enough, only slightly marred by the tension in Bucky’s shoulders.

They stopped at the corner where they usually parted ways, hands once again shoving into pockets. Kids his age probably didn’t hug, but--but god, Steve wanted to. His first real friend, gone as abruptly as he’d appeared.

“I’m--” Bucky cut himself off, lips pressing together in a thin line. He yanked his hands from his pockets, pulling Steve into a rough hug, tight enough to make his chest constrict. “Just be glad you don’t go to my high school, okay? Stan M. Lee ain’t that great.”

Steve patted him on the back, trying to force some cheer into their parting. All his friendships were brief, just because this one was different didn’t mean they had to get sad about it. “What time do you leave tomorrow?”

“Early afternoon, I think we’re going to be at the airport at like 11.”

That wasn’t a lot of time, but it was enough. “Meet me here at 9 if you can, okay? Got a surprise for you.” He grinned in the face of Bucky’s confused look, clapping his shoulder once more before turning for home. “See ya tomorrow, Bucky!”

Bucky was still standing at the corner when Steve glanced back, his face pulled down into a frown. Upset, confused, Steve couldn’t guess from this distance. Just before he was out of sight, his shoulders dropped in what was probably a sigh and he started walking away.

* * *

All-nighters had never been in Steve’s nature. On the boat it just wasn’t worthwhile to stay up all night--his little room belowdecks wasn’t exactly soundproofed against the activity that started at sunrise--and that early-to-bed-early-to-rise mentality didn’t go away on solid ground.

Still, he made himself a coffee and sat at the kitchen counter, sketchbook open in front of him with charcoals lined up neatly beside. For a while he sat, chin in his hand, facing the wall but his gaze far away. He rarely drew from life around him, preferring to turn inside for his inspiration, to draw what his brain created, merging memories and fantasy into one piece.

Finally, his fingers plucked a charcoal pencil from the line up, moving over the page lightly, but with confidence. The first few strokes were almost invisible, the faintest tint of gray on the cream colored paper, but they would fill out soon. What he saw in his mind would translate down his arm, through his fingers, and be settled on paper.

His momma came to the kitchen in the morning, finding him slumped over the counter asleep, a mostly empty coffee cup beside him, charcoal smudged across his face and arm.

“Steve?”

He jolted, almost fell off the chair, and flailed for a moment to figure out where he was and what was happening. “Wh--ow, my neck.”

“Did you stay up all night?” Amused but concerned, collecting his coffee cup and taking it to the sink, filling her own.

“Tried to. Bucky’s leaving today and I wanted to…” He trailed off, looking at the paper in front of him. “Hey, Momma?”

“Mm?”

Bucky lived in Atlanta, he’d mentioned it. Moved there from Brooklyn his last year of middle school. His dad had gotten transferred as part of his job. But Atlanta was a big city, that didn’t mean… It could, though, couldn’t it? “What high school would I go to, if I went to a public school?”

“I’d have to check the paperwork but I think it’s called Stan M. Lee--” Ringing church bells cut her off and Steve felt his heart jolt. He counted chimes, scrambling up from the kitchen and grabbing his drawing.

“Shoot I’m supposed to meet Bucky I gotta go Momma I’ll be back soon love you!” He dashed for the door, stopping short of leaving and running back into the kitchen. A quick kiss to his mother’s cheek, a hand wrapping around his inhaler and shoving it into his pocket, and then he was gone for real.

Steve nearly sprinted to the corner where he was supposed to meet Bucky, almost falling into him as he finally got there. He gasped for breath, grabbing his inhaler and taking a quick puff, then another, before attempting to stand upright. Hands on his shoulders steadied him, Bucky’s face drawn down with worry as he studied Steve.

“Quit killin’ yourself to hang out with me, punk. I ain’t that great.”

“Oh, shut up. Self-depreciation doesn’t suit you.”

Their laughter was short, both of them looking down with sighs. This was it, this was the goodbye he didn’t want to have to say. Steve fiddled with the paper in his hands, taking a breath. “Bucky--”

“I’m gonna miss this. Like, a lot.” Bucky shoved his hands in his pockets, his eyes down. “I don’t… I’ve got friends at home, I guess, but they aren’t… they aren’t like you. We don’t have fun when we hang out, we just kinda…” He shrugged, vague, scuffing his sneaker against the pavement. “I guess it’s selfish of me, but I’d rather stay here with you than go back there with all of them.”

And Steve knew, suddenly and clearly, everything clicking into place. He’d go to public school. He’d go to _Bucky’s_ public school. Stan M. Lee, where he’d be for his senior year, with a friend already in place. Someone he could laugh with. Someone who could lead him around the city and show him all the sights.

And it’d be a surprise.

“Hey, we can still email, I’ve usually got a satellite uplink to the internet when we’re at sea. That’s better than nothing.” He nudged Bucky’s shoulder, slowly handing over the drawing in his hand.

Bucky, drawn from his memory, the moment he’d started looking around from the bell tower yesterday. The open awe on his face, the spark of wonder in his eyes. Steve had done his best to capture it, and while he still had charcoal smudged on his own face--not to mention his hands, grimy fingerprints at the edges of the picture--the look of surprise on Bucky’s was something else he’d commit to memory.

“You’re…” Bucky swallowed, pulling Steve into a tight hug, careful of the drawing in his hand. Steve hugged him back, quiet, trying not to let his emotions overwhelm him. Crying wasn’t cool, even he knew that.

“Guess this is goodbye,” Bucky finally said, stepping back and holding out his hand. “It was real nice to meet you, Steve Rogers.”

Steve snorted at the formality, taking Bucky’s hand and shaking it regardless. “Likewise, Bucky Barnes. Maybe we’ll get to hang out again sometime.”

“Hope so.”

And that was it. Bucky glanced at his watch and frowned, turning away. Steve watched him go, waved as he rounded the corner, then started on his own way home. He needed a shower and to sleep. And he needed to start packing for the move to Atlanta.

Surprising Bucky on the first day of school was the right thing to do. He could feel it in his bones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 _"Tu as le QI d’une huitre"_ : "You have the IQ of an oyster"  
> 2 _"Con comme une valise sans poignée"_ : "Go cook yourself an egg"  
> I googled these as some of the Very Important Research for this fic.


	2. September

Steve breathed in and out slowly, shifting his backpack on his shoulders. This was it. The big yellow school bus was three houses down and for the first time ever, he’d be stepping onto it. There hadn’t been yellow school busses in Brooklyn. He hadn’t attended school there for more than a month, anyways, before being pulled out by his mother.

He could feel her eyes on him from the front door, tucked behind the screen but no less watchful. She’d asked him a dozen times over if he had everything, namely his paperwork for coming in as a new student. His class schedule would be given to him when he got the school, as would his locker combination. He also had the doctor’s note to excuse him from physical education. Sure, he’d grown up from the ninety pound kid he was once puberty started, but he still had asthma, so running around playing sports was out.

The bus’s air brakes hissed as it left the driveway three houses down and started towards him. Steve threw one last look over his shoulder, his heart pounding. It wasn’t too late to run back to his momma and have her keep teaching him. It wasn’t too late to forget the whole thing.

No. He had to grow up. And he’d have Bucky, once he got to the school. He could do this. Steve squared his shoulders and took a step closer to the end of the driveway. Here was the bus, it was--

It was flying past him, not even slowing down. Steve watched it go, dumbstruck, watched as its brakes flashed and ignited a moment of hope in him before the turn signal came on and the bus disappeared around the corner.

His shoulders fell in defeat and he trudged back up the driveway, opening the screen door. At least his momma was nice enough to stand back in the entryway. “I, uh… missed the bus.”

“I think the bus missed you. Come on, I’ll drive you in today. I can call the bus garage after I get to work.”

He tried to pretend like her keys weren’t already in her hand, like she wasn’t already expecting his first defeat. It was fine, things would get better once he was at school.

* * *

In theory, Steve knew what four thousand kids could look like.

In theory.

He hugged his backpack, crammed as far against the wall outside of the guidance office as he could get. His momma had dropped him off and he’d made his way inside with the crush of students getting off of busses and out of cars, had managed to get over to the main office easily enough and even followed the secretary’s directions to guidance. Now he stood outside the closed door, trying to figure out how anyone knew where to go or what to do or how to _think_ in the crowded, winding hallways he was stuck in.

There was no sign of Bucky in the rush of students. Steve resisted the urge to take a pull from his inhaler, swallowing down the tight panic that wanted to close his throat. He was fine. It was just high school.

A bell shrilled overhead and like magic, the crowds dispersed, students disappearing into classroom doorways or down halls. Steve shifted his weight, glancing at the clock over the door. Eight sharp. He was supposed to be in his first ever homeroom.

“You’re late, you know, not a good look on the first day. But I won’t tell if you won’t.” A voice from behind him and Steve turned around, head tilting in confusion. The man shrugged, waving dismissively. “What’s the problem, then? You don’t like your math teacher or you want a lunch block with your friends? Come on, speak up.” Jangling keys as he shouldered past Steve, still doing his best impression of a fish on land, and unlocked the guidance office door. “Or let me guess, you don’t think you belong in remedial algebra even though your incoming scores were the bottom fifteenth percentile, a term you probably don’t know.”

“I, uh… I’m Steve Rogers. I’m new here?” He managed to find his voice, though it squeaked out, nearly every word turning into a question. “I was supposed to come to you for my class schedule, I think?”

“Rogers… Rogers…” The man ushered him inside, taking a seat behind a desk and flipping through a stack of seemingly random papers. “Ah, right, from--France? You don’t sound French.”

“I’m from Brooklyn.” A little more confidence in his voice. “I’ve just been living in--well, a lot of places, but France most recently.”

“Oh, the homeschool kid. Why didn’t you say so? Right, here.” He shoved papers forward and Steve hurried to catch them, also closing his hand around a name plate. _Doctor Erik Selvig_. He carefully returned it to the precarious edge of clear space on the desk. “Class schedule, locker number and combination, school map… supplies list and your graduation mapping. Most of your electives have been covered, but you’ll have to take the Georgia standardized tests. That’s English and U.S. history in the winter, math, chemistry, and biology in summer. Usually they spread them out over two years but you do need to pass all of them to graduate. Says here that you’re excused from physical education, but you need to go down there for a physical for school records. Doesn’t require any athletic activity. Hmm… what else?” Doctor Selvig squinted at a paper in front of him, shaking his head. “No, that will about do it, I think. Welcome to Stan M. Lee High School, Steve Rogers. I hope it’s, uh, fulfilling for you.”

Another shrilling bell chased him out of the guidance office, now with a map of the school he could barely decipher, a locker number to put his backpack into, and a list of classes to attend. He’d missed his first ever homeroom.

He stumbled through the crushes of students for the rest of the morning, getting turned around and lost on his way to his classes. Navigating back to his locker between each one was nearly impossible. Finding his classes and keeping an eye out for Bucky at the same time was unthinkable. Steve kept looking for him in class, but by the time lunch rolled around, he’d had no such luck.

Math wasn’t his best subject but the teacher was nice. Biology was fine, his momma had taught him plenty there. Steve was almost feeling better about this whole ‘public school’ thing by the time he got to lunch. He had art afterwards and would finish up the day with English. His schedule for the next day looked promising, too, even if his ability to arrive to class on time would still be lacking. Chemistry, history, lunch, study hall instead of PE, and another art class.

His outlook brightened considerably as he made his way outside, spotting familiar dark hair leaving the building ahead of him. Steve picked up the pace with a grin, following as Bucky rounded the corner of the school building. There was a small group of guys there, ducked under bleachers, and Steve’s pace slowed as Bucky joined them. One of the guys pulled something from his pocket, glancing around furtively. “Jasper, keep an eye out for Hill.”

Steve edged closer, his eyes widening in helpless surprise as the guy lit a cigarette, taking a drag before passing the pack off to his left. Okay, so these guys smoked, that didn’t mean that _Bucky_ would--

Apparently it did, Bucky taking the pack as it was passed to him, taking out a cigarette and lighting it with familiar ease. He took a long inhale, puffing out smoke slowly. The din of lunch was quieter around the back of the building, and he could hear Bucky perfectly well. “You buy cheap, shitty smokes, Brock.”

“Only ‘cause you assholes freeload them off me. You want good quality, start paying me for it.”

“Yeah, well--”

“Bucky?” It didn’t sound like his own voice even to his ears, strangled in his throat. Steve took a tentative step forward as Bucky turned around, trying to think of what to even say.

It didn’t matter. The other guy--Brock, he guessed--snorted a loud laugh. “ _Bucky_? Oh man, that ‘cause of your buck teeth?” He bent forward, slapping his own knee as if it was the funniest joke ever, and the others joined in.

Bucky stared at Steve, his eyes wide and unblinking. Slowly, a flush crept up his face, before his gaze turned stony. “Who the hell is Bucky?”

The other guys were still making jokes, slapping each other on the back and arm as their laughter grew louder, but it was static in Steve’s ears. His eyes were locked on Bucky, on his face, on his eyes. On the plea he saw there, the _please, leave me alone_ that he’d never expected to find in his friend’s eyes.

Steve didn’t so much leave as flee, ducking back into the school building and finding a corner to hide in. If he’d found a rock, he would have happily curled up under it and died.

He ate his lunch in a bathroom stall and the rest of the day was a blur.

* * *

Steve was determined that his second day of high school would be better than his first. He made it to homeroom, which was already a good start, slipping into the classroom just as the bell rang. His eyes scanned for an empty seat, a frown tugging at the corner of his mouth when there was none. This was the right room, right?

“Clint Barton, go to your _own_ homeroom,” the man at the front of the room said without even looking up.

Steve watched as a boy with messy blond hair stood up with a huff, scooting past him out of the room. “Um.”

“Steve Rogers, I’m guessing? The transfer from France?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Take your seat.” He gestured to the seat that had been vacated, eyes back on his desk.

Steve dropped into the chair, tilting his head back and sighing. Okay. He could do this.

“Hey.” A finger tapped his shoulder and he turned, staring at the redhead behind him. “You’re the international transfer student, yeah?”

“I guess, yeah.”

“You don’t sound French.” Her pen moved briefly, before she slammed her notebook shut.

“I’m from Brooklyn. I was just living in France.”

“Interesting… I’m Natasha.”

“Steve.” He offered his hand, flushing dully when she laughed. “Sorry, I’m--”

“What classes are you taking? Here, lemme see.” She reached past him, plucked his schedule from his desk and skimmed it. “Oh, you have history with Clint and I, nice. And you’re in biology _and_ chemistry? That’s harsh. I can ask Bruce to tutor you in biology, if you want.” The notebook on her desk opened again, her pen moving before she once more closed it. “What’s with all the art electives?”

“I like art. Who’s Bruce?”

“Oh, you know.” She waved vaguely, handing his schedule back. “How’d you get out of P.E.? Thanos doesn’t let _anyone_ bypass his torture sessions.”

“Doctors note. I have asthma.”

She looked him up and down, frowning. “Thor’ll be disappointed. You look like a football player.”

“Only if they want someone who can’t run more than twenty feet without dying.” He liked Natasha, Steve decided. She was direct. Though her little open-write-close notebook was somewhat unsettling. “What’s with the notebook?”

“Oh, I’m just digging for dirt on you.” She smiled, quick and sly. “I have dirt on everyone. Like did you know that Tony Stark keeps a picture of Steven Hawking under his pillow? He claims it’s to draw in brain power. And you won’t believe who--”

The bell rang, cutting her off, and Natasha picked up her things. “Okay, come on. I’ll walk you to the science wing before I go to class. Come back here for history.”

The blond guy that had been in his seat was outside the door, a backpack over one shoulder. “Can’t believe T’Challa chased me out, that seat was empty yesterday. Who’s this?”

“Steve, he’s new. Steve, this is Clint, he’s old.” Natasha introduced them, falling in step in front of the boys. “Steve has history with us. He’s not interested in archery.” Clint’s mouth snapped shut and he shoved his hands in his pockets.

“Archery?” Steve repeated.

“Clint’s been trying to start a club since he came here.”

Clint nodded vigorously. “I wasn’t allowed to try at my last school, something about psychotic kids and projectiles not mixing, but Hill said I could if I got enough interest.”

“How much interest do you have so far?” He wouldn’t sign up, but it’d be interesting to watch.

“Uh, me and one other guy.”

Natasha shook her head. “And he’s more interested in _you_ than the club.” She stopped outside a door, pointing. “Steve, chemistry class. You remember how to get back to T’Challa’s room for history?”

He had no idea, but he nodded anyway. “I’ll figure it out.”

“Two lefts and a right,” Clint offered, clapping him briefly on the shoulder. “See you then, man.”

Steve let himself into the classroom, taking a seat and swallowing down his nerves.

He wasn’t positive, but he thought that maybe… Just maybe, Natasha and Clint were his friends now.

* * *

His steps stumbled as he saw Bucky again, Clint and Natasha disappearing ahead of him. The crush of students heading outside for lunch pushed Steve out the door and he lost sight of Bucky, turning to try to find his friends once more.

Clint was at his shoulder, grabbing his arm and leading him across the open grass. “C’mon, meet the gang.”

Steve followed obediently, dropping to sit on the grass with the other students. Clint pointed to each one, grinning widely. “Bruce, Thor, Tony. Guys, this is Steve.”

Bruce and Tony barely waved, some intense conversation happening between them. Thor beamed widely, however, clapping Steve hard enough on the back to almost make him fall over. “Do you want to try out for the--”

“He doesn’t, Thor,” Natasha’s voice cut in.

“Asthma,” Steve added, looking up as she sat down. Her eyes were across the grounds and he tried to follow her gaze.

“Clint, she’s wearing my fucking jacket.”

“You don’t even know that it’s yours.”

“It has that stain in the _exact same place_. It’s my jacket. She’s _flaunting_ it.”

Steve gathered this was an old conversation, as no one else seemed to acknowledge it. But his curiosity was piqued. “Who’s wearing your jacket?”

Natasha sat up straighter as everyone else groaned. “Wanda Maximoff stole my jacket. I wore it all last year and that little sophomore snake wanted it. I could see it in her eyes. So at Tony’s big end of year party she waited until I took it off and she _stole it_.”

“So go take it back?”

“Can’t. No one ever proved it. But I know that’s my jacket and she’s been wearing it since yesterday to rub it in my face.” Natasha crossed her arms, leaning her weight onto Clint.

“See, Steve, you’re lucky. You don’t have history with any of these people.” Clint rolled his eyes, cramming most of a sandwich into his mouth.

“I… yeah. I don’t.”

“Look, I know I can’t _legally_ adopt him, but I can emotionally. Morally. I can take him under my wing. That’s basically the same thing as being his father, right?” Tony’s voice was rising with each word, until more than just their small group was staring at him. Steve heard someone mutter ‘weirdo’ and felt heat creep up the back of his neck.

Bruce sighed. “I don’t think you should be anyone’s moral compass, Tony. Even if they join the chemistry club as a freshman.”

“As a _freshmore_. He’s in his first year, but he’s mostly taking second year classes. Bruce, he’s practically _meant_ to be my son.”

“Who is this?” Natasha seemed suddenly more interested in the conversation at hand than in glaring across the quad. “Why haven’t I heard about your son, Tony?”

“I just met him before lunch, he was in the chem lab asking about joining the club. Van Dyne is gonna see if it’s even allowable to have kids in there who haven’t taken the class yet, but she wants to let me because I antagonize her husband.” Tony beamed, apparently proud of that fact. 

Steve shook his head. “You guys are weird.” Silence fell on the group, all eyes on him, and he felt himself flush. “I mean--that’s not a bad--”

Thor laughed first, loud and long, and the others joined in quickly. He looked around for help, for what the joke was, his eyes landing on Natasha. She hadn’t steered him wrong so far.

“ _Now_ you’re getting it, Steve. Welcome to the Weirdos.”

* * *

Steve shuffled out of the locker room with the rest of the guys in his PE class, wondering just what the point of him changing into the PE uniform was. He looked around with an increasing sense of urgency for the PE coach, resisting the urge to crumple his doctor’s note in his hand. 

A shrill of a whistle made him jump, a booming voice coming over the gym. “Fitness assessment. Two laps around the track. Get moving, ladies!”

The rest of the class headed for the track and Steve crossed the wide, empty gym towards the man with the whistle. “Uh…”

“Get on the track, kid. No excuses, this is mandatory.”

“I have a doctor’s note about--”

Dark eyes narrowed on him and Steve felt about four inches tall. “On. The. Track.”

“Y-yessir.”

The rest of the class was already out there, warming up and stretching. Steve swallowed down his nerves, his eyes scanning across the track. Okay, he could walk it, he could--

Another shrill whistle. “Line up! I see anyone not running and I’m gonna make you all do it again!”

Oh, god. He had to get out of here. 

“Three, two, one…” The whistle blew again and most of the guys took off at almost a sprint. Steve didn’t try to keep up, just jogged along at the fastest pace he thought he could manage. He was behind most of the rest of them by a quarter track length as he reached the halfway point, his lungs getting heavy, his chest getting tight, but he could maybe--maybe…

His hands clawed for the inhaler in his pocket as he stumbled off the track and onto the grass in the middle. Oh, great, he was going to die hearing his jerk PE coach blowing that _damn whistle_.

He opened his eyes to white ceiling tiles, sitting up slowly and looking around. Uncomfortable bed with paper sheeting--doctor’s office? Steve groaned, scrubbing a hand against his mouth. It tasted like he’d swallowed nickels.

There was someone else in the room, looking at him with concern, sat in a chair across the way with his casted leg propped up and a pair of crutches next to him. Steve tried for a smile. “He make you run, too?”

“No, I was smart enough to tell him to piss off and leave for the main office. I didn’t have to almost die to get out of the PFA.” The other teen grinned, reaching forward and offering a hand. “Sam Wilson.”

He clapped his hand into Sam’s briefly. “Steve Rogers. In my defense, I _tried_ to tell him I couldn’t run.”

“Yeah, well,” a new voice cut in, an older man stepping out of a side office and into the room, “Thanos is what we in the medical community call an _asshole_. You’re cleared for study hall instead of PE for the rest of the semester, Sam. Depending on how your leg heals up, you might be under his thumb next semester and most likely will be next year. Steve, you’re good for the rest of the year. Not too bad, really, he’s only almost killed one student so far this year. This time last year it was six.” The nurse made a face, looking at the clock. “I’ll write you two a pass to go get your things from the locker room before the end of class, then report to the library. You’ll be going there instead of the gym from now on.”

“Thanks, Nurse Strange.” Sam pushed himself up with his crutches, offering Steve a crooked grin. “Unless you wanna wear that for the rest of the day.”

“It’s _doctor_ ,” the school nurse muttered, stepping back into his office.

Steve looked down at the shorts and t-shirt, making a face. Grass and mud stains all over them. “Hard pass. What’d they do, _roll_ me off the field?”

“Hey, gotta keep you out of the way of the push-ups, right?” They shared a laugh, taking the hall pass from the nurse--doctor?--and heading back towards the locker room. Steve fell into step with Sam’s ambling pace, looking around the nearly silent halls.

“So, what happened to your leg?” He wasn’t being invasive, right? Probably not. Sam seemed cool. Not that Steve’s track record for judging people’s personalities was stellar.

“Tore my damn ACL. During nationals last spring, I clipped a hurdle and went down hard. Lost my scholarship and everything.”

“Scholarship? Like for college?”

Sam shook his head. “No, like for a way better high school than my parents could afford to send me to. At least they let me finish out my second year before kicking me out.”

“That’s rough. Why wouldn’t they just let you keep attending the same school? I mean, all your friends were there, right?” Steve opened the random locker he’d shoved his things into, getting changed quickly and stuffing the PE uniform into the laundry bin in the corner.

“They only want prestigious athletes. Like, Olympics potential. Some kid with a torn ACL is worthless to them.” He shrugged, waving one crutch over the locker room. “I’d rather not be running at all than deal with this crap.”

“This is the first time I’ve ever been in a PE class. What a great impression it made.” Steve rolled his eyes, heading out of the locker room with Sam and looking around. “I was homeschooled before this, lived on a research vessel with my mom. She was studying the Meditteranean.”

“No shit?”

“No shit.”

Sam grinned, hobbling down the hallways. “So what made you decide that high school was better than the high seas?”

“She got a position at the Atlanta Aquarium and asked if I’d rather keep homeschooling or try public school. I… Well, I thought I had a friend here, so I said public school. Now I’m not sure _who_ he is.” Steve shrugged it off, giving a quick smile. “But I’ve made some other friends, so it’s not all bad.”

He opened the library door for Sam, following him in and to a table. There were only about fifteen minutes left in the block, but Sam still seemed ready to sit down and prop his leg up. “Well, hey, count yourself up one more friend. You seem pretty cool, Steve.”

Steve grinned. “So do you, Sam.”

* * *

By some miracle, Steve survived his first week of school. He told himself that he’d given up looking for Bucky by Friday, that whatever was going on there didn’t matter. He had the weekend in front of him, and homework to do, and a new city to learn. His momma had promised to take him to the aquarium on Saturday and let him see where she worked now.

Steve was halfway to the bus when a honking horn got his attention, eyes darting to the shiny red sports car he’d been crossing in front of.

“Get in, loser, we’re going shopping!” Clint called from the passenger seat, waving him over. Steve looked from the car to the bus, before hurrying around and getting in the back seat.

Natasha smiled at him from the driver’s seat. “We’re not actually going shopping, we’re going over to Tony’s place.”

“You could be kidnapping me for ransom, for all I care. It’s better than riding that bus.” The excitement of the school bus had worn off quickly. Too many shouting kids and fast turns, he usually had a headache and a stomach ache by the time he got home.

“Yeah, no more school bus for you. I can drop you off at home after school, I already let Clint hitch a ride.”

“Goin’ to the apartment block in style.” Clint looked back at him with a grin and a wink. “Just don’t go taking my front seat privileges, yeah?”

“No promises.” Steve laughed, sitting back and letting their conversation wash over him, the breeze in his hair. Natasha’s family must be pretty well-off, he mused, to let her drive such a nice car. He’d talked about getting his permit with his momma, but so far they hadn’t made an appointment. His license was still a ways off.

Then again, if he’d thought that Natasha’s family was well-off… Steve gaped at the house they pulled up in front of, his mouth opening and closing several times.

“Yeah,” Clint agreed, getting out and jerking his head to the side. “That road leads back to the main house, this is just the guest house that Tony lives in.”

“Guest… house…” He wasn’t exactly scraping by, but an entire house just for _guests_? Where Tony lived--what, alone?

“I’m pretty sure his dad invented something big, like toaster strudel or special relativity or something.” Clint shrugged, tugging Steve gently towards the front door. “Even Nat hasn’t figured it out yet.”

The door opened, an older gentleman holding it for them with a smile. “Natasha, Clint, welcome. Who’s your new friend?”

“Hey, Jarvis. This is Steve.” Natasha dipped into a quick curtsey at his bow, before laughing. “Is Tony in his room or the lab?”

“Last I saw, he was on his way to his room. Would you all care for an after school snack? I have apple slices and peanut butter.”

“That sounds great, J.” Clint followed Natasha inside, his voice lowering to a whisper as they climbed the stairs and Jarvis headed into another part of the house. “The first time I came over, I flat out asked if Tony was secretly Batman or something.”

“That’s because you read too many comic books, Clint.” Natasha lead them with confidence, down a short hallway and through a set of double doors. “Tony, put your pants on!”

“I should probably call my mom and let her know where I am…” Everything around him was too much to take in, the fancy house and the butler and--

Stepping into Tony’s room was easier. It was huge, with a balcony overlooking a garden, but it was the same cluttered mess as his own bedroom at home. Posters of different bands and movies on the walls, a television with a spill of video games in front of it, a desk with a computer on it in one corner. 

“I refuse to wear pants in my own home,” Tony announced, coming out of a second door--bathroom or closet, Steve guessed--and pointing at the jeans he still wore. “The things I do for you people, really.”

Clint was already making himself at home, stretching out on Tony’s bed and grabbing a stack of CDs from next to it. Steve gingerly took a seat on the edge of the bed, looking around the room. It felt like what he would have pictured as Tony’s room, in a weird way. He wondered if his own bedroom would start to feel like him, now that they were settled in somewhere.

Clint rolled over and put a [CD](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oMfMUfgjiLg) in, before sitting up, crossing his legs. “Hey, Nat, did you finish the thing?”

“Just about. I got all the important stuff, at least. Here, Steve.” She tossed something to him and he fumbled to catch it, frowning. 

“Yearbook?”

“Last year’s book and your guide to who’s who at SML. Get studying, there’s going to be a quiz on Monday.”

He opened the book, flipping through it, past the pages of autographs and messages and into the senior class. There were a few more scattered notes and missives, messages from people that had graduated the year before. Steve flipped to the junior class, spotting Natasha’s sweeping cursive and beginning to read.

_Bruce Banner: Don’t make him angry! Really good at science and always up for sharing lunch._

_Clint Barton: The world’s BIGGEST nerd but it’s okay. We like him, he’s cool._

Between the two of them was Bucky, staring out from the yearbook without a smile on his face. There was no note next to _James Barnes_. Steve kept turning pages.

_Thor Odinson: The sweetest guy you’ll ever meet who could also probably break your spine with a hug._

_Pepper Potts: Life goals and wife goals. Tony has a crush on her._

_James Rhodes: Call him Rhodey and note that he spends 87% of his free time at JROTC things and it is UNFAIR._

There was a short extra under James Rhodes, different handwriting underlined harshly: _86.4%._ Steve snorted a laugh, turning pages.

_Natasha Romanoff: The best person you’ll ever meet. Yes I know everything about everyone._

_Brock Rumlow: The world’s biggest dirtbag. Avoid at ALL COSTS. His friends are no good, either._

_Tony Stark: Genius, billionaire, playboy--_ The writing, neat block capitals, spiked away like someone had yanked the pen out of the author’s hand. Steve didn’t have to stretch to guess it had been Tony writing. _He’s another science nerd, but I GUESS he’s pretty smart._

“Hey wait, Tony Stark, the one with the picture of Steven Hawking under his pillow?” Steve looked up at Tony, then to the pillows spread across the bed.

Tony sputtered from where he was fixing his hair in the mirror, turning a glare on Natasha. “You are _not_ still telling people about that!”

“Only because it’s still true.”

He let them bicker, flipping through the rest of the book. There were others in the sophomore and freshman classes, then a series of pictures with different sports teams and clubs. Steve flipped back to the freshmen, skimming until he found who he was looking for.

_Wanda Maximoff: Jacket Thief. Do not trust with cool things._

And, right above her, _Pietro Maximoff: We’re pretty sure he’s in love with Clint. It’s cool._

Steve shook his head, flipping back towards the beginning of the junior class, back to Bucky. “Hey, so… what about him?” He pointed and the others leaned closer, looking over his shoulder.

“Ugh, _that_ guy,” Tony groaned, dropping onto a chair. “He’s a dick.”

“And a tool,” Clint added, picking up a marker and leaning over Steve’s shoulder. He doodled little devil horns onto Bucky’s picture.

“James Barnes is one of Brock Rumlow’s cronies. They’re a bunch of machine shop assholes, you’re better off avoiding the whole group of them.” Natasha raised an eyebrow, watching him closely. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, uh… no reason.”

Her gaze stayed sharp on him. “No?”

She knew everything about everyone. She’d somehow find out eventually. Steve sighed, his shoulders dropping. “So before I came here, I lived in France for the summer, yeah? We were in Marseille, and I… met someone. This really cool guy named Bucky. We became friends like right away, two American kids in France for the summer. Bucky… is James Barnes.”

“No way.” Clint huffed, giving him a slight shove. “ _No way_. One of his buddies once dumped an entire lunch down the back of my pants. You’re not friends with someone who has friends like _that_. It was noodles and meat sauce day!”

Steve shrugged, staring down at the picture in the yearbook. “I thought I was. I really don’t think I can say that anymore.”

“It’s interesting, though…” Natasha tapped a finger on her chin, looking up to the ceiling. “Clint, you were at the other school in middle school, and Tony you were still a year behind us so you would’ve been in seventh grade when James moved here… I think he went by Bucky then, come to think of it. Until he got to high school, then… he changed.”

Before Steve could press her on that, there was a commotion, Bruce and Thor coming into the room. Trailing after them was Jarvis, the promised apple slices and peanut butter on a tray. Each slice of apple had been carefully cut to look like a rabbit.

“Master Stark, the rest of your friends have arrived,” Jarvis smiled, setting the tray down and bowing shortly. “I’ll leave you all to it.”

“Totally Batman,” Clint whispered as Jarvis left, going to pick up some apple slices and a little dish of peanut butter. “How was football, Thor?”

“We skirmished against the Guardians and I got to see Peter Quill again.” Thor frowned, rubbing a streak of dirt off his face. “Their team plays dirty, but he’s captain and said he was going to work on them. He also said that two girls tried to kill each other at lunch?”

“A redhead and one with--I dunno, I think she had blue hair?”

“Shaved head.”

“Still probably Gamora and Nebula. Let him know that that’s normal but also stay as far away as humanly possible. They’re not afraid to cause innocent bystander casualties.” Clint shrugged, giving Steve a grin. “I used to go to that school. It’s definitely a _survival of the fittest_ situation.”

“Makes me wonder how you made it. You were a beanpole until last year.” Natasha grinned, shoving Clint’s shoulder.

And he’d thought SML was bad. Steve turned to Bruce, raising an eyebrow. “So are you on the football team too?”

Bruce laughed, shaking his head quickly. “No. God, no. I don’t have the temperament for contact sports. I was staying after tutoring in the library. Caught a ride with Thor when football practice ended.”

Tutoring--that was right, Natasha said that Bruce might be able to tutor him in biology. “Don’t suppose you help out with chemistry, do you?” Steve asked, taking a plate of apple slices as it was passed to him. He had his momma for biology, but chemistry was a whole different animal.

“I could probably--”

“I can help you with chemistry.” Tony dropped onto the bed next to Steve, practically on top of him. “I got the highest score in the state on the exam. Almost studied for it, too.”

“Don’t let Tony tutor you, he’ll just spend the whole time berating you for being wrong,” Clint grumbled, swatting down the pillow Tony threw at him. “It’s true!”

“I wouldn’t berate you if you’d pay attention to how quadratic equations are supposed to be formatted.”

Steve fled the bed as the two of them got into it, taking a seat on Tony’s vacated desk chair.

The friendly squabbles and jokes continued into the afternoon, everyone apparently comfortable and content with spending their Friday at Tony’s house. Finally, at almost six, they started to pack up and head out, everyone waving goodbye to both Tony and Jarvis.

Natasha dropped him off at home with concerningly few instructions to his house and Steve waved as she and Clint left, turning towards his front door.

It was about then that he realized he’d never called his momma and told her where he was.

Steve hurried inside, dropping his backpack and following the hallway further into the house. “Momma? I’m home! Sorry I’m late--”

“Steve!” She practically ran from the kitchen, wrapping her arms around him and kissing his forehead. “Where have you been?”

“I was, uh, hanging out with friends--sorry, I didn’t know we were going to be there so late and I forgot to call and--”

The worry practically evaporated from her face, though her hands still gripped his shoulders firmly. “Next time call me. Who are your friends? How was your first week of school? I feel like we’ve hardly seen each other this week, come on, come tell me everything.”

He followed her into the kitchen, talking as he helped cook dinner. He turned the questions on her as they sat down to eat, asking after her new job and how her week had been.

If he went to someone’s house again, he’d remember to call. Worrying his momma wasn’t something he ever wanted to do.


	3. October

A month ago it was brand new, but now it all seemed so routine. Classes and homework and Friday afternoons at Tony’s and lunch with the group and shooting the shit in the library with Sam. Steve found himself settling into it as September ended and October began, as the first round of unit exams proved that he needed help with US history more than chemistry. He turned in two charcoal sketches to the praises of his art teacher, and started on pottery in his other art class. 

He was on his way out to the quad for lunch one afternoon, intent on meeting up with everyone and doing some last minute cramming for the quiz Natasha was sure they were going to have in history tomorrow, when someone grabbed his arm. Steve turned sharply, his head cocking to the side. “Uh, can I help you?”

“Eddie Brock, I run the school paper. I was hoping to get an interview with you, the perspective of a new student and--”

Natasha and Clint seemed to materialize to either side of him, stepping forward and cutting off Eddie Brock. “He’s not interested,” Clint said.

“No one even reads your gossip rag, Eddie,” Natasha added, rolling her eyes.

“It’s not a gossip rag, it’s a legitimate source of news for--”

“Eddie. No one cares. The only thing people ever buy that paper for is the dumb little doodle--”

“That’s _Venom_ and he is _adorable_ thank you very much.” Eddie grumbled, tucking his pencil back behind his ear and stalking off. Steve thought he heard him muttering something about _freedom of the press_ , but he wasn’t sure.

Steve let out a small exhale of a laugh. “Little harsh, you two.”

“We’re just saving you the trouble of having to cut him off later. Once Eddie gets his claws into a person, he doesn’t know how to let go.” Natasha shook her head, leading the way out onto the quad.

“Also, his paper’s crap.” Clint shrugged, patting Steve’s arm lightly. “He’s not as upset as you think. He knows print media is dying.”

They seemed pretty confident and really--Natasha and Clint hadn’t steered him wrong so far. Steve let it drop, settling onto the grass and starting in on his lunch. He let the conversation flow past him, his eyes drifting across the quad. Pointless but helpless, looking for Bucky. Feeling like the other teen should be in the group with him.

“...eve? Hey, Earth to Steve, anyone in there?” Tony waved a hand in front of his face and Steve jolted out of his thoughts, blinking owlishly.

“Wha?”

“Articulate, dude. Are you in this weekend or not?”

This weekend, in, he was--Steve tried to piece together that conversation he’d mostly zoned out of. Something about a movie? Maybe? “I don’t know.”

Tony sighed, flopping dramatically back onto the grass. “As in you don’t know if you’re interested or you don’t know what we’re talking about?”

“Little of both,” Steve admitted, delivering a light kick to Tony’s shoe. “Start me from the beginning.”

“ _Serenity_. It’s the _Firefly_ movie and this is the last weekend to see it in theaters. A movie based on a thirteen episode TV show that got screwed by the network doesn’t get a very long run time.”

“Yeah, I have no idea what that is, so… Count me out, I guess.” He shrugged, looking down. “Sorry.”

“No big. That’s five. Anyone else we want to invite?”

He’d never felt like more of an outsider with the group, but at least only Tony seemed put out by it. Bruce gave him a smile and a headshake, and Clint nudged him lightly, looking at Tony before rolling his eyes dramatically. _Drama queen_ , he mouthed.

They were still his friends. That was what mattered. That was what wouldn’t change.

* * *

The library hummed softly with noise, a group that had filed in shortly after Steve and Sam had gotten settled. He’d disappeared into the stacks at Sam’s request for some sources the other teen needed for an essay, abandoned his own work almost too eagerly. Biology homework wasn’t hard, but punnett squares were tedious at the best of times.

Steve trailed a finger along the row, counting Dewey Decimals under his breath. He rounded a corner, almost smacking face first into the back of someone in the next aisle of books.

“Sorry--Bucky?” His breath froze in his chest, his hands clenching and releasing at his sides. They weren’t friends, not anymore. The summer was over and whoever Bucky had been then, he was someone different at school.

Or so Steve tried to tell himself, but the smile that crossed the other teen’s face, however brief, was the same one he remembered from Marseille. “Hey, Steve…” He shifted his weight, gently shouldered Steve back out of the aisle of books. “I, um… how have you been?”

“Good, I’ve been--good. I, uh, you know… moved to Atlanta.” Duh. “Was--was gonna surprise you.”

“You succeeded.” They both laughed, too brief, too awkward. Bucky looked over his shoulder, lowering his voice to almost inaudible levels. “I’m sorry. I… It’s complicated. Everything here is. I just wanna get out without any bullshit.”

“Seems like you’re the one making bullshit for yourself, Bucky.”

“James,” he corrected, automatic, looking over his shoulder again. “It’s James at school, okay?”

“Fine. James. Whatever.” Steve forced his back straighter, his shoulders square. “If I’m not cool enough for your friends, fine. It’s not like I’m flying solo just because I don’t have you to pal around with.”

The hurt look on Bucky’s--on _James’_ face didn’t make him feel any better. “Yeah, I noticed. You’re a Weirdo now, capital W. Great group you got there, real winners.”

“Says the guy who smokes under the bleachers.” James wanted to get nasty, so could he. Steve had spent almost six weeks telling himself he wasn’t hurt by the dissolution of their friendship. He’d spent a month and a half determined not to let it fester into resentment, and here it all came, spiraling out of him with venom he would have sworn he didn’t have. “So who was the guy I was hanging out with in August, huh? Just some front to make yourself seem like less of an Asshole? Capital A.”

Something cracked across James’ face, the same kind of hurt-turned-hate that Steve was sure he was showing. The brunet teen _shoved_ him this time, slammed his back against the shelf of books along the back wall. “Fuck you,” James hissed, right in his face, giving him another shove before stepping away. “Don’t act like you know me.” He turned, stalked off and rounded a corner.

Steve pushed off the wall of books with a wince, reaching back to rub his spine. He trudged out of the stacks, dropped back into his chair at the table Sam was still sitting at and buried his head in his arms.

“Dude, uh… you okay?” Sam reached over, nudged his shoulder gently.

He wasn’t going to cry. Not over a stupid fight with someone who wasn’t even his friend anymore. Not in the library. Not at school. He was seventeen, he wasn’t going to cry in front of people. “No,” Steve choked out to the table, aware of how shaky the word was, how close to a sob. His eyes burned and he squeezed them shut.

He wasn’t going to cry, dammit.

* * *

Friday nights at Tony’s had certainly become the routine. Usually the six of them, sometimes joined by others they knew--mostly Rhodey, Tony’s best friend since apparently forever--and sometimes short a member or two of the Weirdos.

Tony called after him on a sunny Friday afternoon as school let out, took a few jogging steps to catch up. “You don’t have plans, right?”

“Not really, no.” Steve shrugged, his overburdened backpack bouncing on his shoulders. Carrying textbooks to and from school was a special kind of torture. At least he didn’t have scoliosis, something that was apparently enough of a concern the school did mandatory health checks for it once a year. Same with head lice. Public school was weird.

“Cool, you wanna come over?”

Everyone else was busy, Steve recalled; Thor had a football game at another school, Bruce had some sort of doctor appointment, Natasha and Clint were off on some mysterious errand downtown, Rhodey spent roughly ninety percent of his free time on JROTC duties. It would be just Steve and Tony. He nodded. “Sure, I got nothin’ else to do on a Friday night.”

“Great, cool, come on my car’s this way.” Tony led him not to the student parking lot, but around the school, to the parent pick-up area. Steve raised an eyebrow, ready to ask two important questions: Tony had a license and he got to park in the pick up area?

The questions died on his lips, however, as he spotted Jarvis next to a large black sedan. It wasn’t quite a limousine, but it certainly stood out as _luxury_ among the minivans and older cars in the pick-up area. He held the back door for them with a smile and a nod, got behind the wheel and started the car. “Where to, Mr. Stark?”

“Just home, Jarvis. It’ll be just me and Steve this afternoon.”

“Very well, sir. How was your week at school?”

It took Steve a minute to realize that he was being asked the question. He glanced at Tony beside him, before shrugging. “It was… fine.” Fine as long as he didn’t think about his fight in the library with Bucky the day before. Fine as long as he didn’t feel the crushing weight of upcoming tests.

“Personally, I think Steve’s adjusting to public school very well. He hasn’t done anything _too_ embarrassing since he got here.” Tony offered him a grin, stretching his legs out in the spacious back seat. “At least, not since the second day.”

Steve groaned. “Am I _ever_ gonna live down passing out on the track?”

“Only if you do something worse before the end of the school year.”

They talked and joked on the way to Tony’s, picked at each other gently. Natasha was right, once Tony got running his mouth it was hard to stop him, Steve’s only hope was trying to keep up. He finally reached over as they pulled into the driveway, cupping his hand over Tony’s mouth and resolutely ignoring it when the other teen immediately licked his palm.

“Tony. What the _hell_ is a myspace?”

Tony’s eyes went wide above his hand and Steve removed it slowly, ready to clap it back down if things got overwhelming again. He cleared his throat, wiped a hand against his mouth, and began to speak.

“It’s a social networking website, personalized pages where you can share pictures and write about your life and connect with other people based on hobbies and interests. You’ve never heard of it?”

“Not until five minutes ago. So what’s a top eight? And why is it a big deal that you’re in Pepper’s?”

“Jarvis, we’ll be in my room for the afternoon.” Tony opened the door, hopping out of the car and jerking his head towards the front door. “Setting up Steve with a myspace.”

They headed up to Tony’s room, where he booted up his computer, sliding the mouse across the desk and opening different programs. [Music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F01UTYg79KY) first, then Firefox, opening up a new tab and pulling up the website.

“You’ve got a computer at home, right, Steve?” Tony asked, moving his chair aside and pointing to the spot in front of the monitor.

“Uh, my mom does. She’s thinking about getting me a laptop for school work, though.” He frowned, wiggling the mouse over to the registration field and typing in his email address.

Tony talked him through the rest of the registration process, guiding him around the site as Steve clicked and tried to follow the rapid instructions. He was pretty sure he understood most of it, at least.

“Oh, hey, someone wants to be my friend.” That was fast. Steve clicked on the little notification, frowning. “Who’s Tom? And how did he find me so fast, I haven’t even put in any real interests yet.”

Tony snorted, shaking his head. “It’s a bot, Steve. Tom’s the guy that made the site, and he set up his profile to automatically friend every new user. You can just decline--”

Steve shrugged, clicking _Accept_ on the friend invite. “So what’s this top eight all about?”

By the time he had a somewhat decent grasp on the site it was close to dinner time. Steve called his momma and let her know he was staying at Tony’s for dinner, then joined the other teen in the kitchen. Jarvis was cooking, conversing with Tony as he chopped herbs and tossed them into a simmering pot on the stove. Steve breathed in deep, letting out a content sigh. “What is that? It smells amazing.”

“Italian meatball soup. The herb garden has been coming along nicely, and I thought a little taste of Europe might be in order.” Jarvis smiled across the island to them. “Also, it’s nice to get Mr. Stark to vary his pallette on occasion. Not every meal can be peanut butter and jelly.”

Tony huffed, crossing his arms. “Jarvis, I haven’t insisted on PB&J for every meal since I was six.”

“You insisted upon that very thing last week, sir. It’s truly a wonder that you’ve grown at all physically.”

Steve laughed behind his hand, patting Tony’s shoulder in sympathy. “Sometimes it just takes a while. I was barely a hundred pounds soaking wet until I was about fifteen. My momma swears I grew six inches overnight one night and another four a week later.” He remembered it, though not as abrupt of a change as his momma did. They’d gone out to sea for the spring and come back in the summer with all of his pants being too short. The bulking up had come later, growing muscle mass fed by the voracious appetite of a teenaged boy whose body was kicked into overdrive.

“Don’t patronize me, Steve.” Tony shoved him lightly, getting up and going to retrieve bowls and glasses. “What do you want to drink? Whiskey, rum, beer?”

He almost choked on his spit, looking from Tony to Jarvis and back, quickly shaking his head. “I-I’ll just have water, thanks.”

“Boring.”

“But responsible.” Jarvis gave Tony a frown, before looking to Steve. “I don’t allow him to drink, nor to serve alcohol to others. I believe that is Mr. Stark’s attempt at humor. Or, it had _better_ be an attempt at humor.”

“Neither one of you understands sarcasm. You want sparkling water or tap water?”

Steve shook his head. “Tap water is fine. I’m not that fancy, you know.”

Tony laughed, passing him a glass. “Says the guy who grew up on a yacht.”

“Research vessel,” he corrected, taking a sip. “Trust me, it wasn’t a pleasure cruise.”

“No bed of roses?” Tony asked, grinning broadly. “Alright, champ, whatever you say. Man, we need some music down here.” He crossed the kitchen, fumbled with the [stereo](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ym_jVTcBxSU) and turned it up loud enough to drown out any further conversation.

Tony’s house was always about music. About music and friends and unwinding after a long week. Steve let Jarvis drive him home after dinner, sat up front and had a pleasant conversation about his life in Europe, what culture he’d absorbed from summers and winters in different countries. Hanging out with Tony was fun, but talking to Jarvis was relaxing.

* * *

Halloween didn’t mean much out on open water. No trick-or-treating when he was a little kid, no costumes, no parties as he grew older.

So Steve was, understandably, a little nervous about the party at Tony’s on Halloween weekend. It should have been just like any other get-together at the other teen’s house, but he spent far too long checking himself in the mirror, adjusting the bandages plastered over his left ear. Would anyone get his costume? Was dressing as Van Gogh too much? Not enough? What did Halloween mean in high school?

He didn’t have time to worry about it as he heard the familiar honk of Natasha’s car in the driveway. Steve grabbed his house key, kissing his momma on the cheek before running outside.

Natasha wasn’t in her car. “Uh…” He looked around, tapping lightly on the closed driver door. The car was running, parked in his driveway, but she was nowhere to be seen.

A horrible shriek came from behind him and Steve jumped, whirled around as some… _thing_ in flapping black robes ran at him. Bulky, tall, shrieking like a devil and carrying a huge bladed scythe. He let out his own shriek, cowering down against the car and wondering if this was it, this was the story of how he died. Dressed like Van Gogh, in his own driveway.

“Oh my god.” Natasha’s familiar voice, her familiar laugh. “Oh my god, Steve, it’s just me.” The horrifying figure over him reached up, pulling off the hood and mask and revealing Natasha’s smiling face. “Guess I’m scary enough this year, huh?”

“You almost killed me, Nat.” He gave her a light shove once he stood up, returning her smile with one of his own.

“Good, then the Grim Reaper is doing her job.” She reached down, taking off the stilts she was wearing and tossing those, along with her scythe and hood, into the back seat of the car. “C’mon, we gotta go get Clint. He says his costume this year is one for the record books.”

The drive to Clint’s place was quick, Steve’s eyes on the sidewalks as they passed through the town. It was just about dark, little kids in costume running to and from different houses, bouncing flashlights guiding their paths. Natasha moved carefully through the more crowded streets, pulling up outside of Clint’s apartment building.

They didn’t have to wait for him to come outside, though both of them did a double-take at his… _ensemble_.

Steve’s eyes tracked up from the ground, where his jaw still was. Clint wore heels, with thigh high, lacy stockings, held up by garter clips attached to the miniscule shorts he had on. His top half was covered by something sheer with fluffy trim, doing absolutely nothing to cover any sort of modesty. Perched on his head was a headband with two rounded fluffs on it. The whole thing was a shade of muted gray.

“What the hell are you?” Natasha asked as he got into the backseat of the car, squishing himself under her scythe.

Clint rolled his eyes, pointing at his head. “I’m a mouse. Duh?”

“You’re a walking felony is what you are.” She snickered and Steve finally picked up his jaw from the ground, turning around fully in his seat to stare.

“Clint, what the hell.”

“It was this or Robin Hood and I don’t look good in green.”

Steve turned back around, frowning slightly as Natasha made a turn. “This isn’t the way to Tony’s house.”

“Last minute change of plans. Thor’s parents are out of town, so we’re getting together there.” Natasha glanced over at him, raising an eyebrow. “You okay with that?”

He’d told his momma it would be a few friends at Tony’s. No drinking. Nothing crazy. He’d be home late and she was fine with that, it was Saturday night. The location change didn’t mean he was hiding something from her. “Yeah, it’s fine.”

It was fine, Steve told himself as they pulled up to the house, already able to hear [music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bc0KhhjJP98) blasting from inside. It was fine, Steve told himself as they made their way in, Natasha once more on her stilts, huge and terrifying. It was fine.

“Steve! Clint! Natasha?” Bruce called to them, waving one furry, gloved hand. On his head was a hat with a long wolf snout, his body adorned with ripped clothes and more tufts of fur.

“Bruce! Or should I call you Wolfman?” Clint grinned, apparently completely at-ease with the situation. “Who all is here?”

“Everyone.”

“Awesome.”

There was a crush of people and Steve felt himself move with the flow, losing track of his friends in the crowd. It was fine, he’d find somewhere to hang out and get a drink. So the party was a little bigger than he expected…

Eventually he got himself a cup of something that looked like punch, smelled like hand sanitizer, and tasted like mouthwash. Steve nearly spit it back, deciding to just wander around holding it rather than drink. Okay, so there was alcohol…

Sarah Rogers was gonna be pissed if she found out.

He settled himself into a corner of the living room, spotting Natasha across the way dancing with a zombie. Steve glanced to the side, giving a smile to the person beside him. Vampire, maybe? Dressed in all black, black hair slicked back, pale skin. He didn’t see fangs, but who knew. “Nice costume!” Steve told him, raising his voice to be heard over the music.

The teen beside him rolled his eyes, pushing off the wall and muttering something about--did he say ‘the peasantry?’--before heading upstairs. Steve shook his head. Whatever.

“Don’t mind Loki, he’s a prick,” someone on his other side said. Steve looked his eyebrows raising. Apparently Clint wasn’t the only guy that went for sexy costumes. “Don’t ask--I ordered it online and I _thought_ that it was a regular prison jumpsuit.” The black and white striped dress barely made it to the tops of his thighs, its plunging neckline exposing most of the teen’s chest. “Who knew Prisoner Number 69 was all _this_ , huh, Steve?”

Steve blanked at his name, trying to get a better look at the other teen’s face. “Uh… do I know you?”

“Scott Lang, we had P.E. together. I helped, um, roll you off the field that first day.” He flushed, looking down, the next words almost lost under the music. “And we sit next to each other in chemistry.”

It was Steve’s turn to blush, his whole body jerking. “Oh my god, I’m sorry, I didn’t--I don’t--” He fumbled for an excuse, taking a long drink from his cup to try to buy time. Well, there was an immediately-regrettable decision. “I’m not good at chemistry, try to pay attention to the board.”

“It’s cool. Hey, don’t you own a boat?”

“Well, my mom does.”

“But you like grew up on it, right? Like a pirate. Man, we should be calling you Captain. Or Cap. Yeah, I like Cap for you, Cap.” Scott grinned, clapping him on the shoulder and ambling off.

It didn’t take long for a mummy to shuffle up to him, hobbling through the crowd on crutches. Steve grinned, shifting aside to make room against the wall. “Sam, back from the dead so soon?”

“Haha, Steve. What’re you supposed to be?”

He gestured to his left ear. “Van Gogh.”

Sam gawked for a moment, before cackling. “Dude, that is _dark_. I love it. Hey, have you seen the guy wearing lingerie?”

“More of him than I ever thought I would. That’s Clint. Apparently he’s a mouse.” Steve pointed across the way to Natasha, reaching out to catch Sam as he nearly fell. “Natasha and I picked him up for the party.”

“That is _not_ Natasha Romanoff in there.”

“Swear on my life.”

“Christ, I figured that had to be someone on the football team!”

They stood back, watching people, making small talk. Steve lifted his cup to his mouth a few times, putting it down without drinking as soon as he got a whiff of the smell. He’d rather not.

“You think there’s anything non-alcoholic at this party?” Sam asked eventually, pushing off the wall and balancing on his crutches. “I’m definitely not supposed to mix alcohol with the painkillers the doctors have me on.”

“Worth looking.” Steve managed to shoulder through the crowd towards the kitchen, Sam close behind him. There was just as much of a group there, though two voices raised above the rest.

Two guys in football gear, heads nearly together, apparently in a heated argument. Steve took an involuntary step back, feeling the weight of bodies behind him as people made room for the fight that seemed likely to go down.

“I can’t believe you copied me!” One of them shouted, giving the other a shove. “Not cool, man.”

“You showed up at my house wearing the same thing I was, how does that make me the one that copied?” Wait--was that _Thor_?

“Oh my god.” A girl next to him, seemingly not in costume, crossed her arms. “Either kill each other or get out of the way of the keg, assholes!”

“Not now Neb--Gamora, I’m in the middle of--”

She moved fast, crossing the room in four quick steps, vaulting off the counter and tackling one of the football players--not Thor--to the ground. Steve winced in sympathy as his helmet cracked against the tile. She pulled a knife that looked far too shiny to be plastic from somewhere on her person. “What did you just call me, Peter?”

The room had gone dead quiet, save the delighted (or terrified?) giggling of a short girl dressed as an angel near the new fight. “You’re dead now, Quill.”

“Thanks, Mantis, that’s real encouraging--Gamora will you put the knife away? We _don’t_ want the cops showing up here.”

“Too late for that.” Someone else had joined the fray, lifting Gamora bodily off of Peter Quill (Steve wracked his brain, the name was familiar) and tossing her over his shoulder. “Officer Drax is here to arrest all of you.” He hauled the football player on the floor up with his free hand, nearly lifting him off the ground as well, before looking around the room. “It’s a metaphor. I’m not actually a cop, I’m just going to make them sit in the car until they’re less drunk.”

Everyone cleared out as the fight was broken up, and Steve made his way over to Thor. “Great party.”

“Isn’t it? What’s going on, Steve?” Thor beamed under his helmet, clearly proud of the ‘little get-together’ he’d put on. Or drunk. It was difficult to tell.

“You know if there’s anything non-alcoholic around? Sam can’t drink and I’d… rather not.” He made a face, tipping his cup of punch-slash-mouthwash down the sink.

Thor looked around, shrugging as he opened the fridge, a spill of cans falling out around his feet. He dug past them, coming up with two sealed bottles of water and handing them over. “Check the fridge in the basement if you want more, there’s usually some there.” Thor reached for another beer, his hand freezing in place as a girl dressed in a nurse costume wandered by. The three of them watched her go, before Thor cleared his throat and grabbed his drink. “Anyways, enjoy yourselves, it’s Halloween!” It was hard to tell through the helmet, but Steve thought he saw a blush before Thor walked off. Huh.

Steve handed a water bottle to Sam, gaze following the other teen as someone new passed through the kitchen. Red hair, wearing a green corset and stockings, with leaves stuck to her--Poison Ivy, he thought. A moment later, someone else followed, definitely dressed as Batman. Hot on his heels was a Robin.

“Wait--was that Tony as Batman?”

“He’s doing it to fuck with me,” Clint’s voice at his side startled him and Steve turned, staring. “He knows that I know that he knows that… Well, you know.”

“Clint, how much have you had to drink?”

He shrugged, but Steve could guess the amount wasn’t low. He’d lost his heels somewhere. Steve sighed, passing over his water bottle. “Drink this for a while, Mighty Mouse.”

The zombie Natasha had been dancing with earlier wandered into the kitchen, zeroing in on them. “Hey, have you guys seen Tony? He’s dressed as--Wait, Sam?”

“Oh, hey, uh--James, right? Math class?”

“Yeah. Rhodey, really. Anyways, Tony’s dressed as--”

“Batman,” Steve offered, jerking his head down the hall. “He went chasing after Poison Ivy. With Robin.”

“Fuck.” Rhodey pinched the bridge of his nose. “I was supposed to keep him away from Pepper tonight.”

“Hey man, s’not your job to babysit him.” Clint grinned, leaning most of his weight onto Steve. The water bottle was about half gone. “This is good, wha’s in it?”

“Hydrogen and oxygen.”

They all heard the crash, breaking glass, the silence that followed as the [music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NrI-UBIB8Jk) was cut off. Distantly, they heard sirens.

It was like a switch had been flipped. Rhodey disappeared, calling for Tony. Clint’s weight came off him, his steps quick as he got on one side of Sam and gestures for Steve to get on the other. Between the two of them and the crutches, they managed to get out of the back door and around the side of the house. They came around to the front yard in mostly darkness, spotting what had apparently happened. There was a broken window on the storm door, two guys pummelling each other on the ground out front. In the distance, flashing blue lights were getting closer.

“Cops! Scatter!” Someone shouted, the crowd already dispersing.

Steve found Natasha at her car, tossing her stuff into the back seat. He and Clint clamored into the back. “Nat, are you okay to drive?” Steve asked as Sam tossed his crutches into the car, dropping heavily into the passenger seat.

“I can if you can’t,” Clint added, his words no longer slurred, his eyes clear.

“I’m good. Haven’t had a drink all night. We’re going to Tony’s.”

“Hey, can I ride with you guys?” A voice called and Steve looked over to Scott, giving Natasha a glance for her nod before gesturing to the car. Scott jumped in the back seat with them, practically on Steve’s lap. “Thanks, Cap.”

They pulled away before the cops got there, most of the rest of the party fleeing along with them. Steve felt a pang of regret as they left--Thor was going to be in _so much_ trouble.

By the time they got to Tony’s house, the adrenaline had worn off. Steve gave Clint a look, but he seemed to once more be out of it, on the verge of passing out drunk. An act? 

They made their way to Tony’s bedroom once they were inside, most everyone collapsing in various places. Clint sprawled across the bed, pointing at Sam.

“Are you my mummy?”

“No one else is going to get that reference, Clint.” Natasha sighed, rubbing her temples. “Thanks for letting us in, Jarvis. Tony should be here soon.”

Jarvis gave them an understanding look, leaving and coming back with glasses of water. Tony wasn’t far behind, a small entourage with him--Bruce, Rhodey, the Robin and Poison Ivy, along with a witch and another guy in a red outfit. The Flash, Steve thought.

“Does everyone know everyone?” Tony asked, flopping onto the bed next to Clint and stretching out. “Please say yes.”

Natasha nudged Steve lightly, pointing. “Peter Parker, Tony’s son. Rhodey, Tony’s best friend. Pepper Potts, senior class salutatorian. Wanda and Pietro Maximoff.”

“Thanks,” he whispered back, giving a tired nod to the others as they settled into the room.

She smiled, before addressing the group at large. “So, anyone know what happened? We bailed pretty fast once we heard sirens.”

Bruce pulled his hat off, rubbing a hand through his hair. “Brock Rumlow is what happened. I had a front row seat, he got into it with some kid from Novacore High and it turned into a brawl.”

“Ouch. You know who?”

“No idea, think someone called him Rocket? Anyways, before the real cops showed up some other guy _dressed_ as a cop showed up and tackled Arnim through the screen door.”

Tony laughed tiredly from the bed. “That’s amazing.”

“You should have seen the girl that went after Jasper,” Wanda added, taking a sip of water when Jarvis brought another round of glasses. “I think she had a real knife.”

“I’ll have the full story by next weekend, I’m sure.” Natasha’s eyes were locked on Wanda, her gaze hard. “Funny, wasn’t I a witch last Halloween?”

“Were you?” Wanda returned, arching one eyebrow. “I don’t recall, I guess you didn’t stand out to me.”

“Please don’t kill each other in my bedroom,” Tony mumbled from the bed, shoving Clint over onto his side. “Someone has to make sure that he keeps breathing, okay?”

“Hey, ‘m fine,” Clint groaned, opening one eye. “Mostly. Hey, Pietro.”

“Hey, Clint.”

Near the door, Peter looked around, apparently awed. “Is every high school party like this?”

Steve had been wondering the same thing. If so, he wasn’t sure he’d go to another one. Seeing everyone relax was fine, but the fights and the cops--that was a bit much.

The group answer wasn’t encouraging: a mingled sigh of very tired “yes” from almost everyone else in the room.


	4. November

He could already hear Tony’s voice as he entered the cafeteria. November had come in cold and rainy, the school closing the doors to the outside quad for lunch and instead forcing everyone indoors. Steve followed the sound to the table in the back corner that his group, his Weirdos, had taken over, flopping down next to Thor.

“And then Pym says to me--hey Steve--that I can correct his teaching method when _I_ get nominated as a nobel laureate, and--”

Steve let Tony’s rant fade to background noise, more troubles with Pym in physics class. He was eternally grateful he didn’t have to take physics; chemistry and biology and math were already more than enough. He shifted, turning his attention fully to Thor. “So, did you get in trouble for Halloween?”

“Not really. Loki attempted to paint the party in a more negative light, but compared to what our sister Hela used to do in high school, a broken door and a police report are hardly anything.” Thor grinned easily, waving a hand. “My father quite firmly believes that kids should be allowed to make mistakes.”

“The only _mistake_ that was made was letting me have unmonitored access to the liquor cabinet.” Clint groaned, dropping his head onto the table. “How do I _still_ have a hangover?”

“Because you’re a pain baby,” Natasha offered, setting a can of ginger ale in front of him as she took a seat. “It was fun until the jerk squad crashed it, though.”

“Yeah, speaking of--” Bruce pulled himself away from Tony’s rant, pointing across the cafeteria. “Notice who’s _not_ here today?”

They all turned to look, even Tony, to the table at the opposite end of the room. Steve wasn’t sure exactly who was missing from the group around Bucky, but someone had to be.

“What, did that girl actually stab him?” Natasha asked, her voice dropping lower. “Clint, did you get a good look at her? I heard they were Novacore kids.”

Clint shook his head, but Steve was piecing it together quickly. “I think I heard someone call her Gamora. She was there with the other football player and the guy dressed as a cop.”

“I’ll ask Quill about it next time we skirmish with them,” Thor offered. “He was starting to tell me something when the fight happened, so I’ll have to get the rest of it.”

“How do you two know each other? Is it just football?” Steve asked, turning back to the lunch table. He didn’t need to be caught staring at Bucky-- _James_ \--and his friends.

“No, Quill used to go to school here, he moved in with his dad last summer, though, and got swapped to Novacore. And Clint used to go to Novacore, but they reorganized the districts when we were all freshmen,” Natasha explained, ruffling Clint’s hair lightly. “I knew everything about everyone coming into high school, so when a new kid showed up, I needed dirt on him. Except…” She grinned and Clint nudged her lightly.

“Except she couldn’t figure anything out about me just by stalking, so eventually she had to become my friend to learn first hand just how boring I am.”

“More or less.”

“So how’d the rest of you become friends?” Steve had been wondering that since the first week of school. They were all Weirdos, but they were all so _different_.

Tony waved a hand. “Bruce and I started the after school tutoring sessions together, and Clint came in for math tutoring with me--”

“Which you suck at--”

“Which he’s hopeless at. But he dragged Natasha along and her and Bruce hit it off. Thor came by looking for help with English, he wanted to up his grade to stay on the football team.”

Thor shrugged. “It worked well enough. Admittedly, I thought you were just going to end up doing my homework _for_ me instead of helping me understand it, so I took longer to come by than I should have.”

“Yeah, well, you watch too many movies from the 80s.” Tony stuck his tongue out. “It kind of turned from tutoring to just hanging out after school and then sort of became hanging out during school.”

“And then the first day of school this year, I saw you,” Natasha added, leaning around Clint and Thor to look at Steve. “Looking so lost I just knew someone had to help you swim before you drowned. Though you seem to be capable of making your own friends pretty well. Sam and Scott both are nice.”

Steve shrugged, waving dismissively. “Sam and I are both excused from P.E. and Scott… uh… sits next to me in chemistry. Which I definitely didn’t just learn at the Halloween party.” He thought about it for a moment. “Sam just transferred here from the sports school, actually. Tore his ACL and lost his scholarship.”

“Ouch, that _sucks_.” Clint propped his chin up with a hand, taking a slow drink of his soda. “Is this Scott Lang?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“He lives in the same apartment block as me. That’s literally all I know about him.”

Natasha flipped open her notebook, skimming through pages. “Rumor is that he’s dating Pym and Van Dyne’s daughter, but that’s unsubstantiated. Also she’s going to a private prep school in New Jersey so how much of a relationship do they really have?”

“Oh, god, _Pym_.” Tony groaned, his hands flailing across the table. “Do you know the worst part about it all? _Do you_?” He was off again, rapid words for a topic Steve was pretty sure only Tony himself understood. Maybe Bruce was following along.

He focused on his food, tried to ignore the feeling of eyes burning into the back of his skull. He’d spared one more look across the cafeteria during the conversation, a casual glance, but he’d made eye contact with Bucky. Just for a moment before they’d both looked away, but Steve was willing to bet that if he turned around again now, Bucky would be staring at him.

Whatever that meant.

* * *

Steve dragged his feet coming into the kitchen on Sunday morning--afternoon, really, but just barely. November was always hard, but something about this November was harder. Maybe it was the solid ground under them every day. Maybe it was being close enough but still so far away from--

He shoved the thoughts of Brooklyn away, pouring himself orange juice and putting a bagel in the toaster. He could hear the soft tapping sound of his momma in her office, working on her computer. Could smell the warm rich scent of her coffee, probably half-drank and forgotten on her desk, getting cold as the hours passed.

He made her a fresh mug of tea, brought it into her office along with his breakfast and set it on her desk.

“Morning, sleepy.” She paused her typing, sitting back and stretching her arms over her head as he took a seat. “Late night?”

“Nope, just being lazy.” They were both subdued, their smiles quick to fade. Steve turned to look out the window, the bright sunshine outside feeling out of place with the gloomy mood between them. “Momma--”

“Steve--” She started at the same time, both of them fumbling over their words and each other. 

He tried for a smile, taking a sip of orange juice. “You first.”

“Do you want to go back to Brooklyn for Thanksgiving? We can fly, spend a few days in the city. Visit with family.” His father’s family, not her family. Aunts and uncles and cousins that he barely knew from fuzzy childhood memories. Sober black pants and skirts swishing past his momma’s legs while he’d hid behind her and cried.

“I don’t know.” He pulled his feet up onto the chair, wrapped his arm around his knees. Tried to be smaller. “It’s been… a really long time since I saw any of them in person.”

“It’s something to think about, is all.” She took a sip of her tea, looking back at her computer. “We could visit your father, too.”

Steve felt his throat try to tighten and forced himself to breathe slowly, to push through the constriction of emotion that would put a wheeze in his breath. He wasn’t dumb, he knew how she got if he was upset enough to start having trouble breathing--she would drop it, never bring it up again, pretend it hadn’t happened. He could let it go there, he had in the past, but--

“I wanna think about it, okay, Momma?”

“Okay.”

He washed down the last bite of bagel with orange juice, standing up and stretching out. “Oh, is it okay if my friend Natasha comes over later? She’s helping me study for our next history test.”

“Little last minute to ask for permission, but that’s fine. You seem like you have a good little group of friends, I’d love to actually start meeting some of them.” Her smile was teasing and he returned it more easily, let the heavy conversation stay behind them.

“They’re all pretty great, but I won’t subject you to Tony. He thinks he knows everything about everything, I’d hate to make you put him in his place.”

“Oh, I’d _love_ to do that. Putting teenaged boys in their place is the highlight of my week.” She laughed easily, waving him off. “Go take a shower and get dressed. You look like a homeless person. That’s no way to be when you have a _girl_ coming over.”

“M-momma!” Steve flushed, rushing off to do as she’d said regardless. Natasha was just a friend. Sure, she was a girl, and sure, she was pretty, but--but she was his _friend_ and he liked her just fine that way. 

He pushed the thoughts away as he showered, pulling on clean clothes and looking around his room. Well, a little cleaning up wouldn’t hurt… Steve shoved dirty laundry into his hamper, cramming it into his closet and shutting the door. He made up his bed, cleared the scraps of paper and half-finished art projects from his desk, and opened a window. Was a t-shirt too casual? He could throw on a polo.

The doorbell stopped his rushing thoughts cold, his momma’s footsteps seeming to echo through the house as she went to the door. Steve bolted for the stairs, going down as quickly as he could, not fast enough.

“You must be Natasha. Come on in.”

He stopped at the bottom of the stairs, putting in the effort to look casual as Natasha came inside. “Hey, Natasha. Thanks for coming over.”

“Yeah, no problem. Honestly I need the studying help just as much.” She toed her shoes off, patting the bag slung over her shoulder. “You mind reading my English essay if we have time?”

“I can do that. Come on up.” He nodded up the stairs, giving his momma a glance and a smile. 

She smiled back, mischief in her eyes. “Keep the door open, you two.”

“M-momma!” Steve gasped as Natasha passed him on the stairs and started laughing.

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Rogers. We’ll behave.”

“I was a teenager once, you know.” She waved them off, looking over her shoulder as the phone in her office began to ring. “Help yourselves to the kitchen if you get hungry.”

Steve’s face was burning as he led Natasha to his bedroom, flopping into his desk chair with a sigh. “I knew she was gonna embarrass me. We should have gone to your house.”

Natasha shrugged. “She seems nice.” She opened her textbook and notebooks, getting settled on the bed. “Okay, so, from the Civil War through…”

It was fully dark out by the time they called it a night, and Steve rustled around the kitchen as Natasha sat on a stool at the island, putting together leftovers for them. He was starving, and Sarah had definitely raised him better than to eat without offering food to his guests. Not that he’d ever really had guests before.

Natasha looked around, her eyes landing on the fridge and a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “You’ve been a lot of places, huh?”

“Yeah, we’ve gone around most of the Mediterranean. Do you want salad dressing?”

“Ranch, please. I’ve always wanted to go to Europe… maybe after high school. I could join the Russian ballet…” She sighed, wistful, as he set down two plates of salad for them. 

Steve hopped up onto a stool, raising his eyebrows. “I didn’t know you danced.”

“Ever since I was three. I’m taking a break from it this year, focusing on school.” She looked down, poking at her plate lightly. “And other things.”

It was probably an invitation to ask. Steve swallowed his mouthful, the words suddenly dry in his throat. Did he have any right to ask? They were friends, sure, but they hadn’t known each other for _that_ long.

Natasha pushed past the subject before he could work up the nerve, offering him a smile. “Have you finished sending in your college applications?”

The subject change left his head spinning, and Steve forked in another mouthful of salad to buy himself time. He swallowed it, shaking his head. “I have a couple more to send. I really didn’t know where I wanted to go, somewhere with a good art program but I kind of want to be able to branch out if something more…” He waved a hand. “ _Traditional_ catches my eye. I’m hoping I can finish up my portfolio over Thanksgiving.”

“Did you do Thanksgiving when you were living on the boat?”

“Not really. The days all kinda blurred together and a lot of my mom’s research assistants were European or North African, you know, locals. So not a lot of cultural recognition of our weird American holiday.” He couldn’t actually remember the last time he’d had a big Thanksgiving meal.

“If you’re free, you can come to my place. We don’t really do a dinner, but Clint comes over to escape the combined force of his dad and his brother and we usually rent movies and stay up late for most of the week. All of us Weirdos usually end up together at some point during the holiday, but I think this year Clint and I might be the only ones staying in town. Thor said they're all going to visit his older sister, Tony's family is going to Los Angeles, and Bruce's mom is taking him to Duke to talk to their admissions staff. Apparently he hasn't even started sending in applications and she just found out.”

“Your parents don’t mind?”

She shrugged. “Clint’s been practically living at my house during vacations since we became friends.” Her voice lowered a little. “His dad drinks. A lot. You know?”

He didn’t know, but he could guess--a piece of something clicked into place, Clint’s drunk-sober-drunk shift at Halloween. Had he been faking that he was drunk? Steve pushed the information aside to process later. “Momma asked if I wanted to go up to Brooklyn. Visit my dad.”

Natasha hissed in a breath. “Nasty divorce?”

“No. He… He died. When I was like six. I don’t really… remember it.” And he’d spent the better part of a decade as far away from having to try to remember it as he could get. Didn’t make November any easier. “It was around Thanksgiving, though, so… one more reason it’s never really been a thing for us.”

“Sorry.”

“It was a long time ago.”

“That doesn’t mean it doesn’t still hurt.” She slid off the stool, walking over and hugging him briefly. “You think it’d make you feel better to go?”

Steve exhaled slowly, trying to keep his emotions in check. He wasn’t going to cry on her shoulder. Not when this was just supposed to be a study session. “I don’t know. Do you?”

“Hey, no fair. I only pretend to know everything.” She nudged him lightly off his stool, heading back to the front door. “On that cheerful note, I should get home. We’re gonna ace this history test, I can feel it.”

“Glad one of us is confident. Just don’t forget to restructure that essay intro paragraph. I’d hate to see all my hard work and red ink go to waste.”

They shared a laugh before she left, Steve watching from the doorway as she drove off. He shut the door, trudging his way to Sarah's room. He was too old for it, but Steve crawled into bed with her anyways, tucking his head under her arm and letting her stroke his hair as she read.

“Hey, sweetie. Good time with your friend?”

“Yeah. She seems pretty sure we’re set for the test Tuesday.” He closed his eyes, humming softly. “Momma?”

“Yeah, Steve?”

“Let’s go to Brooklyn for Thanksgiving. I… I wanna see where Dad’s buried.”

He heard pages shuffle as she marked her place, before the book closed. Both her hands stroked through his hair for a moment, her breath warm against his scalp when she leaned down and kissed the top of his head. “Okay. I’ll book our flights.”

* * *

Brooklyn wasn’t so bad. It was like being somewhere new, really; the last time he’d been in the city, he’d been too small to explore on his own. The places and faces didn’t tug much familiarity to the front of his mind, aunts and uncles and cousins that he knew only by passing mention. Faces he saw only in old photographs.

There were completely new faces, of course, cousins that were much younger than him and spouses of cousins that were much older. Some of them had children of their own, families of their own. It was a lot to take in. A world he didn’t remember, moving without him but still expecting him to become part of it.

Steve stayed close to Sarah, those first couple of days in the city. They had a hotel room nearby to his grandmother’s apartment, and there was a constant string of visitors while they sat in his grandmother’s living room and he listened to her and his momma talk. Pictures on the wall, school portraits and family portraits, smiling faces that were related to him, but unknown.

He pushed himself up from the couch while his mother and grandmother were in the kitchen, walking over to one portrait over the mantle, inspecting it. A military service portrait of a young man, his face somber but his eyes smiling. It was like looking into a very slightly distorted mirror. His father’s face, staring back at him from across the years.

Footsteps came back towards the room and he shot a look over his shoulder, almost guilty. Steve hurried back to the couch, opening up his sketchbook and pulling a pencil from the case beside it. He wanted to draw--draw something. That spark of mischief, captured on film so many years ago, looking back at him now. Knowing.

They went to the actual cemetery on Saturday, a big bunch of flowers in Sarah's arms. Steve followed along well-groomed paths, past neat rows of graves, each adorned with a small American flag. A plaque at the entry had stated that the flags were donated and placed every Veterans’ Day by a Boy Scout troop.

Steve stood back, quiet, as she placed the flowers. Neat white graves, evenly spaced. There were pictures of Arlington National Cemetery in his history book, and this could have been them. He tried to fit the pieces together in his mind, the picture of the man with the mischief-eyes, the uniformly white graves. The flags and flowers and soft words of his momma.

Joseph Rogers. This was his father, a man he barely remembered. He didn’t even know how he’d died.

There was a bench not too far away, and Steve stumbled to it, shoving his inhaler into his mouth and taking in a gasping breath. He was supposed to be with his momma, right? Kneeling, talking to a grave, maybe holding her while she cried. He wasn’t supposed to be sitting on a bench, fighting nausea. Steve dropped his head, tucking it between his knees and taking another deep breath.

Sarah had named her research vessel the _Joseph Rogers_ and he understood, intellectually, that it was named after his dad. That little tidbit meant almost nothing to him in the grand scheme of things. It was just words, words on the back of a boat, now words looking at him from a headstone.

This was all too much.

The warm hand on the back of his neck helped, familiar, bracing. Steve closed his eyes, swallowing past the lump in his throat. He was too young to understand, when his father died. And then it’d been like he’d never existed, like it was just Steve and Sarah always. Was that wrong? Had he made himself forget so that it wouldn’t feel empty? He felt empty now, raw, ripped to pieces. How was he supposed to cope with that as a little kid? He barely had the words for the ache at seventeen. It wasn’t his fault he’d buried it at seven.

“Can I stay here a while, Momma?” Steve asked eventually, sitting up slowly and wiping his face. “I know the way back to the hotel.”

She nodded, kissed his forehead and stood up. “Come back before dark.”

The sun was bright but did nothing to warm the November air of New York. Steve sat on the bench alone for a while, watching the shadows crawl across the ground. Eventually, he moved back to his father’s grave. Knelt beside the flowers and the flag and looked at the name.

It took him a while, but he started talking. Told his father every scrap he could remember over the last decade or so. The adventures on the sea, the people he’d met, his life now. He even spilled his hopes for the future, imagining those mischief-eyes over a smiling mouth, encouraging him to keep trying.

The sun was low when he went back to the hotel, but it wasn’t dark. The streetlights weren’t even on yet. Steve still felt raw, but whole. Like he’d had some part of himself ripped out and replaced. Maybe it’d left nasty wounds, but they would heal and scar and only ache on certain occasions. In late November, when the sun was bright but the world was cold.

He could survive it. Probably.


	5. December

Well, he hadn’t _meant_ to paint this part of his sculpture red--

Oh wait. That was blood.

“Um,” Steve started, his voice cracking with the sudden urgency. He raised his hand, feeling warm blood slide down his arm. “Can I go to--”

His art teacher, a mysterious, new age-y type that called herself The Ancient One, nodded with wide eyes. “Nurse. Now. Sharon, take him so he doesn’t pass out on the way.”

A blonde girl rose smoothly from her seat, guiding Steve out of the art room and to the nurse’s office. She snagged a paper towel on the way out, her soft fingers closing over his bleeding hand and holding it in place. “Hey, focus, eyes on me,” she instructed, snapping to get his attention away from the dripping cut on his hand. It was soaking through the towel already. “You’re Steve Rogers, right?”

“Yeah, I--that’s a _lot_ of blood.”

“I’ve seen more from less injuries. Head wounds, that’s where there’s a _lot_ of blood. This is just a scratch. Your mom works at the aquarium, doesn’t she?”

Steve gaped for a moment, before a new voice spoke up. “Hey, you two, hall passes.”

Sharon was quick to answer, holding up Steve’s bleeding hand. “Ancient One sending us to the nurse, Happy.”

The--security guard? hall monitor?--went a little pale, waving quickly. “Go, go.”

It gave him time to look at Sharon, really focus on her instead of his hand for a moment. The surprise of her knowledge had overcome his shock, at least temporarily, and he spoke as they continued down the hall. “Does everyone at this school know everything about everyone else or something?”

“The rumor mill is productive, but I don’t listen to it. My aunt is one of the supervisors there, Peggy Carter. She was telling me all about the ‘handsome young man’ that her new marine biologist has a picture of on her desk.” Sharon laughed, though her cheeks were flushed. “In _that_ way, if you know what I mean.”

“If I know… Oh, _oh_.” Steve blushed too, looking away quickly. “So, your aunt thinks I’m handsome?”

“Well, she thinks you photograph well.” Sharon knocked lightly at the door of the nurse’s office, before pushing it open.

Tony and Bruce were already in there, Bruce with his ankle propped up and an ice pack on it, Tony staring down Doctor Strange. “He fell in P.E. and sprained it.”

The nurse pinched the bridge of his nose lightly. “Thanks, Doogie Houser, but let the actual doctor make the diagnosis.”

“You’re not a doctor in this state,” Tony muttered, dropping into a chair. He looked over his shoulder, eyebrows raising. “Uh oh, we got a bleeder!”

“You’re charming as ever, Tony.” Sharon dropped Steve onto one of the cots, her hand still on his, still holding the towel in place. “Steve cut himself during art, Doc.”

“Okay, triage priority goes to blood over bones. Keep icing it and keep it elevated, Bruce, I’ll get you an accident report when I’m done. Tony, you can go back to class now.”

“Hard pass. Thanos is in the middle of an entire unit on dodgeball.”

“Whatever, just don’t talk.” He turned his attention fully to Steve, taking aside the paper towel and letting out a little hiss. “I’ve told her a million times not to let you kids use knives. Have you cleaned this yet?”

“No.”

“Legs up, lie down on the cot. You look like you’re about to pass out. Sharon, go sit with the headache of the year and keep him quiet.”

Steve focused on the ceiling as Doctor Strange worked on his hand, cleaning out the cut and bandaging it before washing away the blood that had run down his arm. It probably wasn’t as much as it felt like, but it sure as hell had startled him. He’d once seen someone get their finger caught in a drag line behind the boat and it had--oh, he was going to throw up if he thought about it.

“Keep your hand elevated for now and just breathe slowly.” Doctor Strange turned his attention to Bruce, getting out bandage wraps and crouching down to look at his ankle. “So, what happened? I’m asking him, not you, Tony.” Without even turning around. Steve was sort of impressed, but then again, anyone that knew Tony…

“Tried to dodge a ball, tripped over my own two feet instead.”

“Any cracking or popping?”

“Two pops and a lot of pain. It kinda went…” Bruce shrugged, his hands moving. “Sideways.”

“It’s pretty swollen and is going to bruise up in the next couple of days. You might want to go get it x-rayed, just to make sure it didn’t hairline fracture. Also so you can get a doctor’s note for crutches and an elevator pass. No weight on it and no P.E. until your doctor clears you. I’ll make sure Thanos understands that one.”

“Hey doc, think I can--”

“No, Tony, I can’t just hand out P.E. passes to anyone. You’re going to have to deal with Thanos until one of you snaps.” The bell burred for the end of the day and Doctor Strange sighed. “Tony, go get your and Bruce’s things from the gym. Sharon, get Steve’s things from art. I need to do accident reports with you two before I can send you home.”

* * *

December meant two state exams. For most seniors it was only U.S. history, and he spent most of his afternoons at either the library or Tony’s house, studying with the others. He was one of the few who had an English exam, but since most people took that junior year, he teamed up with Sam and Scott to study.

There were, of course, also midterms in his other classes. Two major art projects to be done, his sculpture and his charcoal portfolio. And his college entrance portfolios to complete and send off. Steve narrowed down his list of schools to three and stressed over entrance essays until the day of the deadlines, when he mailed them in. At least chemistry didn’t have a midterm.

As if exams weren’t enough, he had the winter formal. He didn’t _have_ to go, but everyone else in the group was going, so of course he’d want to tag along. Adding to that, Natasha was clearly up to something related to winter formal. She forced him to go shopping with her one afternoon, and seemed very deliberate in what his outfit should be.

“Nat, why does it matter what color my tie is? I’m not going with anyone.”

She grinned, held a blue tie up to his neck, then swapped it for a richer shade. “Never say never, Steve. You’re socially stunted, not completely hopeless.”

Clint laughed from the bench behind them. “Yeah, dude, I don’t know if you caught this, but you’re kind of really fucking hot. Pretty much anyone that you asked would say yes.” He shrugged. “I would, but that would make Tasha jealous since she already asked me.”

“Are you two dating?” It seemed like an innocent enough question. They were certainly close enough.

Natasha laughed and Clint faked a gag. “That’d be like dating my sister!”

“We made out once at a party and it was… weird,” Natasha added, pushing Steve back towards the dressing room. “We work much better as friends.”

He pulled his clothes back on, rejoining them and taking his purchases to the front counter. His momma had agreed to him buying the tux, said he never knew when he’d need one. Steve questioned that, a little, but didn’t argue. 

Things cleared up considerably in art on Monday, as Sharon Carter took the usually empty seat next to him. He gave her a brief smile before focusing on his sculpture. He wasn’t the _best_ with 3D mediums, definitely preferred his charcoals and occasionally watercolors, but this sculpture, a dynamic-if-abstract piece he’d thought up back in September, was coming along well.

“Hey,” Sharon started when he sat back to assess his work, her own focus pulling from her piece. “Are you going to winter formal?”

“Yeah, I guess so. Most of my friend group is, so might as well.”

“Got a date?”

He glanced at her, her flushed cheeks and shy smile, and couldn’t help a grin. “Your aunt want to see if we photograph well together?”

“She’s not the only one that’s curious.”

Steve considered it, before nodding. “I think Natasha was gonna give me a ride. You want to come over to my place before we go, or should I tell her to pick me up at yours?”

“We can hammer out the details later.” She smiled, her tone turning teasing. “Steve Rogers, are you asking me to be your date for winter formal?”

He blushed, he could feel it warming his cheeks, the back of his neck, even his ears. But the smile didn’t fade from his mouth. “Pretty sure you just asked me, actually.”

He couldn’t even be embarrassed by Natasha’s knowing look after school that day.

* * *

Sarah awed and cooed over them, snapping pictures with her camera. Steve and Sharon posing in front of the fireplace. Steve fumbling to put the corsage on her wrist. Sharon nearly stabbing him in the chest with his boutonniere. The laughter and jokes about how they only spent time together when Steve was bleeding.

More pictures taken outside, group shots once Natasha and Clint arrived. The girls, both looking stunning in their dresses--Sharon in a deep blue with a moon-and-stars patterned shawl, Natasha in a striking red backless piece. Himself and Clint, drastically overshadowed by their dates despite their own suits. The four of them framed by the last remnants of the lovely garden that had been planted outside the house when they moved in, a hobby neither he nor his mother excelled at enough to keep things tidy before the cool weather came.

Finally, she let them go with a wave and a round of hugs, sending them off to the dance in Natasha’s car.

“One more stop before we get there,” Natasha informed them once they were on the road, turning down unfamiliar streets. Steve frowned, counting off on his fingers. Tony had rented a limo, because of course he had--were they going to go to his place and take the limo? This wasn’t the road to Tony’s house.

She pulled up outside an unfamiliar house and Steve’s frown grew. Between study group and just hanging out, he knew where most of their friends lived. Who on earth could she be picking up?

Someone came out of the house alone, dressed in a suit and hurrying down the driveway. The door to the back seat opened and he froze, staring. Steve could only stare back.

“ _Really_?” Bucky finally hissed towards the front seat, starting to climb in as Steve slid to the middle. “You’re the worst, Natasha, the _worst_.”

“Get over yourself and try to have fun for once in your life,” she shot back from the front seat. “You owe me this, _James_.”

“You lose one kickboxing match when you’re _twelve_ …” Bucky muttered, crossing his arms and sitting back.

Steve shifted a little, trying to leave enough room for Sharon to sit comfortably without intruding into Bucky’s space. Oh, god, this was awkward. This was so, _so_ awkward. So, of course, he had to open his big mouth. “How have you been, B--James? Haven’t seen you since that day in the library when you told me to go fuck myself for calling you an asshole.”

Bucky turned a glare on him and Clint laughed from the front seat. “Wow, just diving right into it, huh?”

“Boys, behave or I’ll lock you in the trunk. All three of you can sit in there all night while Sharon and I have a lovely time together.”

“You know, that sounds appealing.” Sharon grinned, nudging Steve lightly. “C’mon, don’t start a fight, my aunt has high expectations of you.”

Bucky’s teeth worked his lip for a moment, before he smiled. “I’ve been great. Heard I missed a hell of a Halloween party, though. Didn’t one of your friends from Novacore stab someone, Clint?”

“Hey, I was never friends with the psycho-sisters, I just learned quick to stay out of their way.”

Sharon leaned over Steve, her eyes wide. “Wait, that actually happened? I thought it was just a rumor someone made up. Didn’t like four people get arrested?”

“Three. Unfortunately, one of them was Alexander Pierce, so the whole thing got pretty much pushed aside as soon as his dad heard about it. The police don’t really want to talk to the press when it’s the mayor’s son that they’re locking up for drunk high school fights.” Natasha made a face. “Not that any of us were involved in it, we were all just innocent bystanders. Weren’t even there, actually. We all went to Tony’s, right, guys?”

Steve snorted. “Yup. Went to Tony’s, ate candy, watched scary movies. Totally innocent night for the Weirdos.”

“Christ.” Bucky shook his head. “At least I was _actually_ not there.” He turned to Steve, frowning just a little. “I can’t believe _you_ were there.”

“Not according to any police statements I wasn’t.” 

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Punk.”

“Jerk.”

It was easier, though. The tension disappeared as they drove, and by the time they got to the winter formal venue, Bucky seemed to actually be in a good mood.

Their table was crowded with kids in formal dress, two of the circular tables next to each other crammed full of Weirdos and their friends. Tony and Pepper, looking dapper in matching outfits. Thor, filling out a suit surprisingly well. Bruce beside him, constantly fidgeting with his purple tie. Steve pulled Sharon’s chair out for her, looking over to the other table as they all settled in. Sam, Scott, Rhodey, Wanda and Pietro, even Peter was there, looking like what Steve could only imagine Tony had as a freshman. He frowned, leaning past Bucky and nudging Natasha lightly. “Hey, who else is at Weirdos Junior table?”

She looked over, snorting a laugh and nodding to Thor. “Loki, his little brother. The goth kid?”

Steve turned again, staring for far longer than was probably appropriate. “Oh.” He snickered, shaking his head. “That kid called me a peasant at Halloween because I complimented his costume.”

“Yeah, he’s like that. Hey, Thor.” Natasha’s full attention turned to the blond, and his cheeks were red before she even spoke. “What happened to asking Jane to be your date?”

“ _Shut up_ is what happened, Natasha. I tried and I couldn’t get the words out.”

“She’s never going to know you like her if you don’t talk to her.”

Dinner conversation was light and cheerful, playful insults tossed between the two tables. The music started up as they finished eating, and Tony immediately rolled his eyes.

“If they play all slow songs all night, I swear, I’ll--”

“Dance with me?” Pepper finished for him. Suggestion, request, demand, Steve wasn’t sure, but she stood up and grabbed Tony’s hand, pulling him onto the dance floor.

“Wow.” Bucky snorted next to him and Steve turned, raising an eyebrow. “Didn’t see that coming.”

“No?”

“Those two have hated each other ever since the first class ranking was posted during sophomore year. Or rather, she’s hated him.”

Natasha grinned on the other side of Bucky. “And he’s been head over heels for her and unable to get any positive attention. Guess Halloween was a real game-changer.”

Steve bounced his leg slightly to the music, glancing at Sharon on his other side. She was watching Tony and Pepper on the dance floor, and he felt a surge of _something_ as he looked at her. The urge to draw her, the longing on her face, except… this was different. Stronger.

“Hey,” he murmured, leaning a little closer. “You want to dance?”

“Thought you’d never ask.”

He stood, taking her hand and leading her to the dance floor, settling his hands on her waist. Sharon’s arms snaked around his neck, the sweet smell of her perfume filling his nose. “Not sure I know how to lead,” Steve confessed, already feeling his body move to the music.

“Just sway and don’t step on my feet. No one expects a waltz.” She leaned in just a little closer, letting her head rest on his shoulder.

There was a screech from the speakers, before [something](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ikFFVfObwss) blasted over them, both of them jumping and looking towards the DJ set up. The man seemed confused, frantically looking at his system.

“Tony!” Someone shouted over the music, laughter echoing after the words. “Really?!”

“Wasn’t me!” Tony yelled back, suspiciously close to the DJ booth. “I swear!”

Steve looked at Sharon, grinning and shrugging. “More beat to this one.” He was pretty sure it was AC/DC. Tony played them enough on Friday nights.

“I can get behind slow dancing to _Highway to Hell_.”

He danced with seemingly everyone he knew that night, shuffling across from Sam on his crutches (“Two more weeks and I’ll show you how a real man dances," Sam promised, before nearly tripping the girl Wanda was dancing with on his crutch), awkwardly leading Peter in a stumbling attempt at a waltz (“Hands above the waist, Steve, he’s practically your nephew!” Tony shouted when they spun near him, and he wasn’t sure if he or Peter blushed redder), joining the circle of his group and trying to keep up as they danced to [something](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9taH1AsZzUY) they had apparently all learned during their public school lives (Steve was pretty sure that you were supposed to _clap_ at the end of each chorus, but that didn’t stop Clint from smacking several different people on the ass instead). It didn’t escape his notice that even Bucky was on the dance floor, smiling and laughing as he switched between partners.

Nor was he oblivious when Natasha and Clint disappeared for ten minutes and came back in swapped outfits. He let Natasha lead him in a dance, marveling at how well Clint’s suit fit her.

“Two safety pins, a bobby pin, and some tape,” she explained, twirling him away and pulling him back. “It’s amazing what those will do.”

And really, Clint didn’t look half bad in her dress, dancing with a blushing Bucky and laughing like a maniac. They switched partners soon enough, Natasha pulling Bucky into a fluid dance and Clint letting Steve spin him around the dance floor, skirt flaring up to around his knees.

“Nat was right, you get him away from the jerk squad and James is pretty okay,” Clint noted, pressing in close to Steve again. “Hey, if I come over to your place later, will you draw me like one of your French girls?”

“You watch _way_ too many movies.”

Natasha and Bucky were coming close again, and she snagged Clint’s arm, pulling him away, leaving Steve and Bucky to stand before each other. The music changed then, the DJ having regained at least partial control, another slow [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rzJikUFVxes) taking over.

“Find someone you never want to let go of and hold them tight, boys and girls, this is the last song of the night.”

The lights dimmed, spotlights falling across the dance floor. Steve shifted his weight, offering Bucky a quick smile. “Should we dance?”

“I…” He hesitated, taking a step closer, before his eyes flicked past Steve’s shoulder. “I should go. Dance with Sharon, she’s nice.”

“Buck--”

He pushed past and Steve turned to watch him go with a frown. It’d been a joke, Bucky had seemed to be having plenty of fun dancing with everyone else, so why run off when it came to him? Steve pushed it down, finding Sharon and pulling her in close again.

“Have a fun night?”

“The best,” she agreed, her head dropping to his shoulder once more.

The group of them headed to Tony’s afterwards, loosening ties and switching dresses for sweatpants. They sat around in his living room, snacking on Jarvis's baked goods and drinking sodas, talking about everything and nothing until nearly sunrise.

For his first and likely only school dance, Steve couldn’t have asked for much more.

* * *

The phone rang as he was trying to close his suitcase and Steve paused, head tilting. Sure enough, a minute later, his momma’s voice calling him downstairs.

He gave up on the suitcase and headed down the stairs, giving her a quick smile as he took the phone. “Hello?”

“Hey, Steve, it’s Clint.”

Steve shifted the phone to his shoulder, leaning back on the kitchen wall. “What’s up?”

He knew, somehow, even before the sigh came down the line. Natasha’s voice in his ear, when they’d been studying for history. _His dad drinks. A lot._ Little things that everyone else pretended to ignore, so Steve did too.

“Look, I don’t wanna like--” Clint swallowed audibly. “Be weird about it, but can I crash at your place for a couple’a nights during winter break? Just like--I dunno, shit man, maybe two?”

“We’re going to Aspen.” Leaving in hours, actually, but… why the hell was Clint asking him and not Natasha? “What’s everyone else doing?” Natasha, specifically.

“Nat’s getting dragged to New York.” Clint’s voice took on a falsetto. “‘Surprise, sweetie, I got you an audition for Julliard.’ Trust me, not her idea. Tony’s parents are taking him to Cape Cod, Bruce is going college touring in the midwest somewhere--Chicago? I don’t remember. And I’d ask Thor, but honestly? Loki creeps me the hell out.”

“That’s valid.” Steve bit his lip, thinking on it. “I can ask Momma if you could house sit for us. Gives you an excuse to get out of there and as long as you don’t throw a party and trash the place, I’m sure she won’t mind if you spend the night.”

“I don’t wanna--”

“Clint, I’ll ask. It’s no big deal. Just bring our mail in, make sure we don’t get robbed or whatever. Think you can get over here before four?”

Clint hummed, indecisive, before making a little affirmative noise. “Before four, yeah. I’ll be there. And Steve, I--thanks. I owe you.”

“Don’t sweat it.” He hung up, going to find Sarah and talk to her about it. Keep it simple, keep it vague. She’d met Clint during winter formal, liked him as much as Steve’s other friends. 

Her eyebrows drew together as he talked, watching his face closely. “How bad is it at his house?”

Steve shrugged. “Don’t know,” he answered, honest. “I think it’s worse when his brother’s around.”

“And he promises not to throw a wild party with unrestricted access to the house?”

To this he could also be honest. “Who would he invite? Everyone’s going away for the break.”

“Okay. But it’s on you if your friends trash our house, Steve. Now finish packing. Weather reports in Aspen say that there should be fresh snow when we get there.”

* * *

Fresh snow was an understatement. The slopes were blanketed in white, perfectly crisp and just waiting for his skis.

They were also covered in other people, skiing and snowboarding, crowding the lifts and the trails. Steve wasn’t going to pretend to have any real athletic ability, but he could stay upright on skis and he could navigate his way down most medium-rated slopes. He’d spent enough winters in the Alps that learning how to ski was practically mandatory.

He navigated his way to the bottom of a moderate slope, leaning and shifting his weight to pass obstacles--mostly other skiers. The sun was high overhead, a thin halo of light under the cloud cover, and the exertion and thinner air of the mountains were playing hell on his asthma. One more run and he’d have to take a break, go into the lodge and rest a while. Sarah was probably in there already, maybe they could get a late lunch and--

Thoughts of lunch fled his mind as someone shouted a moment before a body collided with his. Steve fell ass over teakettle, ended up in a tangle of limbs and skis with someone else. At least he’d landed soft, his head on the person’s stomach rather than cracking against the hard packed snow at the bottom of the slope.

“Shit, sorry, I’m not very good at stopping yet…”

They untangled themselves slowly, getting upright again, and Steve jolted as he got a look at the other person. “Bucky? What the hell?”

“ _Steve_?” The apologetic look fled Bucky’s face, his eyebrows first raising in surprise, then drawing together. “What, Natasha cons me into hanging out with your sad little group for one night and you start stalking me?”

He wasn’t going to take the bait. Absolutely not. If Bucky wanted to be Asshole-James here, just like school, Steve was going to let him. He had better things to do with his winter break. “Don’t have a clue what you’re talking about, _James_. We couldn’t spend this winter in the Alps, so we came here instead. It’s a pretty mountain, but…” Steve shrugged, trying to look flippant. “A little crowded for my tastes.”

“Uh-huh, well, my family comes here every year and it’s always been just fine. It’s really going downhill now.” Bucky paused, then snorted. “That wasn’t a pun.”

“If you come here every year, why can’t you ski?” Genuine curiosity tinged the question, though he tried his best to keep his voice disinterested. Do like Natasha, ask the question but seem to not care enough about the answer that the other person would just keep talking.

It didn’t quite work that way, Bucky’s jaw clenching before he laboriously turned around. “Whatever, I have better things to do than hang out with a weirdo like you.” He probably intended to stomp off, or at least leave with some grace, but that was nearly impossible on skis to begin with, and made harder when Bucky kept crossing his tips.

‘Whatever’ about summed it up. Steve pushes himself off towards the lodge, mind back to hot chocolate and some food. Fighting with Bucky wasn’t worth it.

He found himself in the lounge later that afternoon, settling into a comfortable chair near the fireplace and letting the low murmur of his fellow vacationers wash over him. Steve had brought his sketchbook, of course, and his charcoal pencils, and he settled in with them as the sun vanished behind the mountains, making light lines across the pages. Abstracts that slowly became full concepts, hearkening back to his time at sea. When things were easier, when life was just him and his momma and her research assistants. Back when his only school worries were getting his course work done before they went back to land. Life had had its problems, but those problems hadn’t been complicated by other people’s issues.

“You’re still better than the Louvre,” a familiar voice came over his shoulder and Steve jolted, looking behind him. Bucky, of course, holding two steaming paper cups. “Mind if I sit?”

Steve’s snapping reply died on his lips at Bucky’s sheepish expression. He closed his sketchbook, moving over on the small couch to make room. “Sure, it’s a free country.”

The weight shifted as the other teen took a seat, passing him one of the cups. “Hot chocolate.” 

Tucking his sketchbook carefully against the arm of the couch, he accepted the drink and took a slow sip. The easy conversations and comfortable silence of summer seemed so far away now. Even the laughter of Winter Formal felt like it had happened during a different life. Steve took another drink so he wouldn’t have to try to break the tense silence.

Bucky was staring at his cup rather than drinking from it, turning it slowly in his hands, lifting and lowering the cardboard sleeve. Finally, he sighed, dropping his head back onto the couch. “You know, that first day of school, I thought I was hallucinating. First person I let myself be real around in years shows up out of the blue and I thought ‘yup, this is it, you’ve snapped buddy.’ Right up until I heard your voice.” He blew out a breath, using the air to push his hair out of his eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me, man?”

“Didn’t know I had to.”

“Would have saved me a lot of grief.”

Steve mirrored his posture, huffing out his own breath. “Doesn’t seem like some Weirdo knowing you made you any less of an Asshole.”

“Don’t be like that, Steve, I just--fuck, man, I don’t know. It’s all kinds of fucked up.” Bucky turned to look at him, taking a few shaky breaths. The couch wasn’t all that big, he could feel the nervous bouncing of Bucky’s leg against his. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry that I’m not--not the guy you got to know over the summer.”

“Were you lying to me?” He didn’t turn, but his eyes slid over to Bucky, watched his face. “Were you just putting on a show for your own amusement?”

“No. Nothing like that. I didn’t have any reason to be someone else around you, but back here, back home--I gotta.”

There was truth in his words, truth on his face, and so much conflict in his eyes. Steve wanted to hug him, _would_ have hugged him, but things kept replaying in his head. Bucky brushing him off. Shoving him in the library. Staring at him from across the cafeteria. And then there was Winter Formal, and there was right now, contrasted so heavily with earlier on the slopes. It was like there were two people, Bucky and James, and he never knew which one he was going to get until it was too late.

“Why?” Steve asked finally, a question probably too all-encompassing for the situation.

“I don’t fuckin’ know.” Bucky’s arm draped over the couch behind him, his hand squeezing the back of Steve’s neck gently. Easy contact, warm, just like summer. “But hey, while we’re here, maybe we can--I dunno, try again? I like being your friend, even if you’re a punk.”

His heart leapt at the thought, his _first_ friend, his _real_ friend, his friend taken away too soon and made into someone else--Steve tamped it down, tried to put rationality into his answer. “And when we’re back in school?”

“I don’t… we’ll see, okay? Is that good enough?”

It wasn’t, but the look on Bucky’s face--misery over a thin layer of hope--wasn’t something Steve could stand to see. He cracked a smile, finishing his hot chocolate before reaching for his sketchbook again. “Don’t think you’ll always be able to ply me with warm drinks, Bucky.”

“Definitely not during summer.” He grinned, taking a sip of his own drink, sitting back to watch the fire.

For the rest of winter break, it was like they were back in Marseille, just with much more snow. Steve and Bucky explored the lodge, Aspen, the mountains--everything there was to do around them. They tried ice skating when the lodge opened night skating, something they were both hilariously inept at. Steve tried to teach Bucky how to ski, actually managed to get him off the bunny slopes and down an easy rated path by the end of their two weeks. It turned out Bucky was much better at cross country than downhill, though the exertion of it kept their trips together short. 

Then there were the paths, trails that Bucky was familiar with from years past, places he led Steve just off the beaten path--still in sight of it, they weren’t foolish enough to get lost in the mountains--with views that rivaled the best Switzerland had ever offered. Steve stored them up in memory, the blinding white snow, deep green of spruce trees, and pastel pinks and blues of sun and shadow. It was like a painting, alive and moving in front of him.

Bucky left the day before Christmas, wrapping one arm around Steve’s shoulders and hugging him close. Steve wanted to ask about school, about what life would be like back in Atlanta, but--he let it go, didn’t sour their parting. He and Sarah would be back there soon enough, just in time for New Years. According to the extensive chain of emails he’d managed to check in on once or twice at the concierge desk, everyone was getting together at Tony’s for a New Years party.

There was something under the little Christmas tree in their hotel room for him, on the morning of the 25th. Steve frowned at the small packet, looking at his momma for answers. This trip was their Christmas present to each other, had she--and he hadn’t… “Momma!”

“It wasn’t me, I swear.” She held up her hands innocently, gesturing for him to open it. “I just helped your secret Santa get it here.”

Steve flushed, sliding his finger under the envelope’s seal, opening it up and pulling out the papers within. They were thick, carefully handbound with twine, a single sheet over the top, a short letter written in careful script.

_I don’t know if these will ever be published--probably not--but I want you to have the first ever edition of my poetry collection._

Below that was a piece of cardstock that served as a cover, the title written in marker. _Winter’s Soldiers_ by J.B.B.

He didn’t cry, but he nearly read the little book to rags before they left Aspen. Bucky’s poetry was amazing, Steve couldn’t wait to see him at school and tell him as much.


	6. January

“This is bullshit.”

“I know, Clint.”

“It’s _bullshit_.”

“I _know_ , Clint.”

“It’s--”

“Bullshit. Clint, I get it.”

Clint turned to look at him, eyes blinking out from the fur-trimmed hood of his jacket. “Steven Grant Rogers, I do not live in the south to have to deal with temperatures in the _forties_.”

“Who the hell told you my middle name?” Steve huffed, tucking his hands into the pocket of his hoodie. It wasn’t _that_ cold, really, but he also hadn’t expected to be seated on metal bleachers, feeling every bite of the wind through his jeans.

At least Clint had a parka. He was pretty sure that the coat belonged to Natasha, but it looked warm.

“It’s still bullshit. Fucking global warming.”

Clint’s griping finally ended as a cheer rose through the crowd. [Music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WNxKpYOOYvM) blasted from the speakers as the opposing football team took the field. Season ending exhibition game, the SML Strikers versus the Novacore Guardians. Steve wasn’t sure he’d be able to follow along with the actual game, despite Thor’s many attempts to explain it to him with hours of Madden at Tony’s place, but he was still there to show his support. School spirit. Encouragement for his friend.

Or he was just there to be a sounding board for Clint’s complaining. “Where’s everyone else, anyways?”

“Bruce and Tony are finishing up a study group and Tasha said she had to stay late and talk to someone.” Clint thought on it, counting on his fingers. “Thor’s coming onto the field, obviously. Rhodey’s got JROTC until four-thirty. Sam had a doctor’s appointment. Loki wouldn’t be caught dead here. The twins are down there,” he pointed. “Wanda is still wearing Natasha’s jacket, wow. And Peter is at the study group.”

Steve snorted. “Okay, Natasha 2.0.”

“If I was that good, I’d be able to tell you what they were studying.” Clint grinned, getting up and jerking his head. “C’mon, let’s go sit with the twins.” He started down the bleachers and Steve hurried to follow him. Clint took the empty space next to Pietro, leaving Steve to finish sandwiching them in on Wanda’s other side.

“Hey,” he greeted, smiling quickly. “What’s up?”

“Just waiting for the game to start.” She returned his smile, tilting her head towards the field. “Didn’t know you were into football.”

“It’s… a sport.”

She laughed and Pietro leaned around her, his grin devilish. “Wanda’s not really into football, just a _certain_ football player--”

“Pietro shut _up_ I swear to god--”

“You can’t deny your giant crush on--”

“I will tell everyone who _you_ have a crush on--”

“I think everyone already knows.” A new voice cut in and they all looked up as Natasha took a seat next to Steve. “I mean, about both of you. It’s super obvious.” Her lips pursed for a moment. “No? Just me? Well then, I suppose your secrets stay safe as long as you stay in my good graces.”

Steve shook his head, nudging Natasha lightly. “Be nice, they’re young. And Pietro’s going to be subjected to Clint complaining about the cold for the next several hours.”

“You don’t have that much sympathy for him.”

Well, she was right about that. Cheering saved him from having to defend himself, everyone getting up as the Strikers took the field. The cheerleaders led them in cheering for each member of the team, their jumping and shouting more enthusiastic than Steve expected. Then again, it was probably keeping them warm.

“And your quarterback and team captain, Thor Odinson!”

Whistling and whooping as Thor took the field to pounding [music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y8OtzJtp-EM), pulling most of the rest of the team into a short hug-slash-huddle. They broke apart with a shout as the cheerleaders rushed off to the side, probably to put on sweatpants and coats until halftime.

The two teams faced each other on the field, a referee between the captains--Thor and Peter Quill, from the Halloween party--announcing the rules of the exhibition game. There were others that there Steve recognized, mostly from Thor's Halloween party.

Slowly the others joined them on the bleachers, taking the empty seats in rows above and below them. Tony and Bruce, with Peter close by. Rhodey near the end of the first quarter. He was surprised to even see Pepper come up and take a seat with them, sliding in close to Tony. Steve didn’t track it, but he knew from Tony’s lunchtime laments that their relationship could be described as ‘hot and cold’ at best. Some days they were like best friends, other days Tony did something to piss her off. So really, it was like any friendship with Tony, just with more kissing.

They were up by three points at halftime, and Steve sat back, stretching his arms over his head. “I need something hot to drink. Should I take orders?”

That was a mistake. He was immediately bombarded with requests and small bills for the concession stand, far more than he’d be able to keep track of or carry back on his own. “Okay, okay, one at a time. Someone get me a pen.”

“Hot coffee,” Clint said immediately, wrapping his arms around himself. “This weather is _bullshit_.”

“We _know_ , Clint,” a chorus of voices snapped back, before more drink orders came up. A little slower this time, at least.

Bruce stood up with Steve, pulling out a pen and a notebook, jotting down orders quickly. “You’d think I worked in a diner or something.” He grinned, tucking the small book into his back pocket and making his way off the bleachers. “I don’t know if the two of us will be enough to carry everyone’s drinks back.”

“All we can do is try. How was your winter break, Bruce?” They hadn’t really seen each other since getting back, both diving into school almost immediately. Hell, Bruce had even missed Tony’s big New Years party.

“Not the worst. Chicago was nice, but I don’t think any of the schools are the right fit for me. Try convincing my parents of that, though.”

“Isn’t it a little late to be applying? All my applications were due before break.”

“It is, but I didn't... apply anywhere." He shrugged. "So now I'm looking at late admissions. I tried to, I really did, but--I dunno, it all got so overwhelming that I stressed out. My mom thinks I should try prep school for a year, but...” He wiggled his hand uncertainly as they joined the line for concessions, twitching his glasses up his nose. “So, where did you end up applying to?”

Steve flushed, looking down. “I put in a couple. The art program at Georgia State. Biology at Emory, that was my momma’s idea. But... I really wanna get into the art program at NYU. It’s super competitive, though, so I’m not holding my breath.”

“Well with an attitude like that.” Bruce smiled, clapping his shoulder lightly. “Your art’s good. It’s traditional, not abstract and crazy. I like it.” They stepped forward, rattling off their drink order to the girl behind the counter. Ten drinks that they had to somehow carry back to the stands. At least there were carriers available, making things a little easier.

They wove through milling students as they went back, trying not to spill anything. Steve wrinkled his nose as he caught a whiff of smoke, eyes darting around for the furthest path away from it. An asthma attack with his hands full of hot drinks would not be a pleasant end to the day.

He stumbled and heard a splash, hot liquid on his hand. Just a little, he’d only spilled from his own drink, not the entire tray. Bruce’s hand caught his shoulder, steadying him, before another hand grabbed him and jerked him forward.

“What the _fuck_.”

Cigarette smoke in his face and hot chocolate dripping off the sleeve of the leather jacket, onto his hoodie. Steve pulled himself back as far as he could, trying to keep the remaining drinks balanced. “Sorry. Accidents happen.” He focused, narrowed his eyes just a little as he realized who he’d--bumped into? Tripped over? Pissed off just by existing?

Brock Rumlow shook out the sleeve of his jacket, more drips of hot chocolate splashing onto the ground. There were a few others with him, faces Steve vaguely recognized from his friends pointing out the Jerk Squad to him. Alexander Pierce and Jasper Sitwell. And Bucky, his eyes darting between Steve and Brock.

“Only accident that’s gonna happen here is my fist rearranging your teeth, asshole.”

“Oh, come on--” Bruce started, heaving a sigh.

“Careful, Brucie.” Brock grinned, vicious. “Your little redhead girlfriend isn’t the only one that knows things. One little incident and you’ll be locked back up in the crazy house where you belong.” Laughter backed up his taunt and Bruce took a step back.

Steve’s eyes flicked past Brock, landed on Bucky. Desperate. He didn’t particularly want to try his odds at a fight, but this situation wasn’t going to diffuse itself.

By some miracle, Bucky understood. He gave a shallow nod, grabbing Brock’s arm and yanking him backwards. “Forget it. Weirdo isn’t worth it, you know that. ‘Sides, I saw Hill skulking around and you _know_ that bitch is looking for an excuse to suspend you.”

Brock shrugged him off, shaking out the sleeve of his jacket once again. His eyes flashed back to Steve and he had a moment to resign himself to an ass-kicking, before the other teen snorted. “Only thing keepin’ your face where it is is my good graces. Remember that.” Brock turned, walking away with his little posse in tow. 

Bucky looked back as they left, the briefest smile crossing his face as he rolled his eyes. 

He was still hanging around the Jerk Squad, but maybe--Steve exhaled, pushing it off. “Bruce, c’mon. Let’s get back to the others before their drinks get cold.”

Bruce shook himself, looking Steve up and down quickly. “Yeah. Right. You want another hot chocolate? Captain Assface is wearing most of it.”

He laughed, tossing his almost empty cup into a nearby trash can. “Nah, I’ll be alright. Almost worth it.”

Absolutely worth one hot chocolate to know that Bucky was still his friend.

* * *

The shrill of the telephone pulled Steve out of his chemistry homework. Really, he welcomed the distraction, but this assignment about covalent bonds wasn’t going to do itself. He grabbed the phone up before it could ring again, pressing the button to answer.

“Hello?”

“Hey, it’s Nat. And Clint’s here, too.” There was a fainter ‘hi’ in the background. “What’s up?”

“Doing boring chemistry homework. You?”

“Boring history homework. Did you finish the Vietnam worksheet yet?”

Steve groaned, dropping onto his back. “No. I swear, T’Challa picks the _hardest_ possible questions. I’m pretty sure the answer to number seven isn’t actually in the book.”

She laughed. “Okay, now you sound like Clint. He wants us to use our brains and find secondary sources of information. If you’ve got a computer at home look on Wikipedia.”

“Pain in the ass. So, why the phone call?”

“You know Mr. Coulson, in the drama department? No, I guess not. Well, look, he puts in a budget request to do a musical every spring and there's usually not enough student interest to allow it, but this year he really wants to get it off the ground and I promised that I’d start talking to my friends about it. So I’m calling to twist your arm into doing a musical with us.”

“You saw me dance at Winter Formal, right?”

More laughter, before Natasha repeated his comment, quieter. He could hear Clint cackling in the background. “Yes, up close and personal. We don’t just need people on stage, though. We need set painters and costume designers and people to rig lights--all sorts of stuff goes into a production, even a shitty high school one.”

He thought about it, picking up his pencil and spinning it. “What’s the catch?”

“Why do you assume there’s a catch? C’mon, it’s just a fun--you’re not buying that, are you?” Natasha paused and Steve listened, let his mind wander slowly. What was she doing, right this moment? Lying stretched out on her bed, with Clint flopped across her? On the floor in front of the couch, some strange movie paused on TV? Standing in the kitchen, leaning on the counter? He could see every possibility clearly. “The catch is that everyone thinks the musical kids are lame, but I mean really, people already think that about us.”

Steve considered it, biting down on his eraser briefly. “I make no promises for singing, dancing, or acting ability. But I can paint sets. What’s the musical he’s doing, anyways?”

Natasha hummed for a moment. “ _Grease_. It’s a story about--”

Steve cut her off, laughing softly. “Natasha, I know what _Grease_ is. I grew up on a boat, not under a rock.” He paused, overwhelmed for a moment by memories, being very small and sitting on his momma’s bed with her, waves rocking him to sleep as John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John sang about summer nights. They’d watched that VHS until the VCR ate it.

“Awesome. There’s a few more people on my list to call tonight, so I’ll let you--”

“Wait.” He cut her off again and sat up, almost scrambling off the bed and crossing the room to his desk. Steve pulled out the battered book of poetry Bucky had given him for Christmas, staring at the cover. Natasha had dirt on everyone. “How’d you get Bucky to come to Winter Formal with us?”

“What, he didn’t tell you? We were in kickboxing together for a little while, back in middle school. I bet him that I could beat him in a fight, and if I won, he’d have to take me to prom. Just a silly kid bet, but you know--have to hold you boys accountable.” There was more muffled noise, Clint’s voice trying to defend his own accountability if Steve had to guess.

“Huh. He was in Aspen over winter break, you know. We hung out. It was like over the summer again. He’s...” Different? Not a jerk? Steve couldn’t make those kinds of promises on Bucky’s behalf. He hadn’t actually gotten a chance to talk about how things would be at school. Hadn’t wanted to break the peace between them that suddenly felt so fragile. “He’s Bucky.”

Clint’s voice came on the line, much clearer. “When he’s not around his asshole friends, yeah, he’s pretty okay.”

“Maybe I should ask him to be in the musical with us.” Mostly talking to himself, the bare formation of what could be called an idea.

Natasha returned, humming softly. “If you think it’s a good idea. Hang on, I have his number--” She rattled off the seven digits and Steve wrote them down on a scrap of paper at his desk, dropping back in his chair. “I better go, I still have to call Bruce about this. See you in homeroom, Steve.”

“‘Night, you two. Don’t cause trouble.”

He hung up on Clint’s protests, tossing the phone onto his desk and looking at the number. He should get back to chemistry homework. It was almost nine on a Tuesday, no one called that late--or did they? His experience with phone calls like this was admittedly limited. And how was he supposed to explain to Bucky how he got his number?

Actually, that probably wasn’t much of a problem. And the longer he dawdled on it, the more inappropriate the timing would be. 

Steve picked the phone up, dialing and pressing it to his ear. He tried to ignore how hard his heart was pounding, the mild tremble in his hands. It was just a damn phone call, it was--

“Hello?” A woman’s voice.

Oh, god, somehow he’d expected Bucky to answer. Steve swallowed, trying to force his voice into something that sounded casual. “Hi, um, is Buc--James, is James there?”

“Just a moment.” A _clunk_ as the phone was set down, indeterminate silence. Steve chewed on his lip, his fingers tapping against the edge of his desk. How long did it take to get to the phone? Was it too late, had Bucky been asleep? He shouldn’t have called.

The voice that came back to the phone was the same, but it was sharper now. “Who is this?”

“Wh--it’s Steve, um, Rogers. I’m a friend from school?”

“Weren’t you the kid from France?” Still interrogative. Steve frowned, trying to piece together what a simple phone call had turned into.

“Yeah. Is everything... okay?”

“Do you have any idea where my son is right now?”

Oh, shit. Pieces clicked into place and Steve nearly dropped the phone. “No, I was just--I, um, maybe I should go--”

“If you see him, tell him he’s grounded as soon as he gets home.” The call disconnected abruptly and Steve clicked his phone off, setting it down slowly.

Well, that was a mistake.

* * *

The library was quiet without Sam. It wasn’t like the two of them had been rambunctious, but there were whispered conversations, stifled laughter with notes passed. Sitting alone in the room, under the watchful eye of the librarian, Steve had to admit that he sort of missed it. He didn’t have any classes with Sam, had barely gotten to say two words to him since the semester started again.

So he wasn’t exactly _expecting_ hands to clamp onto his shoulders while he was up to his eyeballs in math problems. Steve nearly screamed, his pencil streaking across his paper as he jolted. He whipped around, staring wide-eyed and trying to remember how to breathe as Bucky stepped backwards, hands up innocently.

“Jumpy?” He whispered eventually, grinning easily and circling the table to sit down across from Steve.

“What the f--heck, Buck,” Steve whispered back, kicking his shoes under the table.

“Didn’t realize you were so oblivious.” His eyes darted around the room, clocking who else was there. Just the librarian, Mr. Killmonger, monotonously moving books from one cart to another, stamping them in between each move. He settled back, stretched out and cocked his head towards Steve’s math homework. “Might wanna erase that.”

He got to work clearing the pencil line from his paper, focusing probably too much on that, his teeth working over his lip. Eventually, Steve looked up again, only a little surprised that Bucky was still there, still acting so casual. “So...”

“So you got me grounded, punk. You know how goddamn terrifying it is to sneak back in and your mom’s sitting on your bed, saying ‘Steve Rogers called for you?’ I almost fell right back out the window.”

Steve’s eyes widened. “You snuck out?”

“Well, yeah. I’m supposed to be home for supper on weeknights and if I wanna go out afterwards, it’s gotta be something a little more concrete than ‘hanging out.’ Especially with Brock.” He frowned, tapping his fingers on the edge of the table. “But now they’re gonna be watching me like hawks, so... Thanks.”

“This the part where you tell me to meet you in the back of the parking lot after school so you can kick my ass?”

Bucky snorted, kicking him lightly under the table. “No. This isn’t a John Hughes movie. My dumbass got busted, that’s all.” He pushed back from the table, standing up. “Anyways, Ms. Danvers sent me down here to work on some extra credit. I better at least pretend to be looking for poetry to analyze.”

Steve turned to watch him go, his head spinning. Would Bucky have come up to him if there were other people in the library? He couldn’t imagine it. But then again... He’d de-escalated the fight at the football game. Wasn’t mad about getting grounded after Steve’s phone call. He wasn’t an expert with psychology or anything, but Steve studied faces, learned to read emotion in the eyes, the set of the jaw, and translate it to art. Bucky hadn’t just been accepting of Steve’s part in his getting caught, he’d sounded... relieved over the punishment. Like he didn’t want to go out in the first place.

Like sneaking out was just part of the front he put on at school. More covers over his real self.

Why the hell was Bucky so insistent on hanging out with people that he didn’t like?

Steve scrubbed a hand through his hair, trying to put his mind back to his math homework. The problems weren’t necessarily hard, but Mr. Vision had some pretty strict standards for how they were to be done. He wasn’t keen on getting points taken off for formatting.

It wasn’t precisely a surprise when Bucky rejoined him. They worked across from each other, mostly silent, as the afternoon ticked by. He finished up his math homework and, out of other actual work to do, switched over to his sketchbook.

He was aware, peripherally, of Bucky looking up at him more and more frequently. Steve kept his eyes on his drawing, on bringing what he saw in his mind to paper. The gentle lines of a smile, the soft curves of wrinkles around the eyes, the play of light and shadow on the pupils that spoke of laughter happening just before or just after the photograph was taken--

“Self-portrait?” Bucky asked softly, leaning across the table a little ways.

“No, I--it’s my dad.” Steve swallowed, sitting back, looking at the sketch. It wasn’t right, he couldn’t pinpoint where it was off, but--it wasn’t right. Still, he turned the page so Bucky could see. “We went up to Brooklyn, over Thanksgiving. To see where he’s buried.”

“How was it?”

He was pretty sure that his mouth twitched into a smile. Not a sob, at least. He wasn’t going to cry in the library again if he could help it. “Not easy.”

“Sorry.” Bucky looked down, rolling his pen back and forth in front of himself for a minute. “Do you--”

The bell burred, signalling the end of the class hour, and his mouth snapped shut. Both of them moved to gather their things, packing away books and getting up to leave for the last class of the day. Steve caught Bucky before they could leave the library, grabbed his shirtsleeve while they still had some semblance of privacy.

“Hey, the reason I called you last night--Natasha’s talking us all into trying out for the musical, I guess Mr. Coulson in the drama department wants to do _Grease_ if he gets enough interest.” He was talking too fast, but he could feel the ticking clock. “It doesn’t have to be on stage, I think she said that there’s stuff like costume design and set painting and--”

Bucky was already shaking his head. “You know how much sh--crap I’d have to listen to if I did something like that?”

“Who cares?” Why was Bucky so obsessed with his reputation? The Bucky he knew from the summer, the kid who he’d hung out with in Marseille and Aspen, he seemed much happier than Steve had seen him looking during the glimpses he’d caught of the other teen in school. He swallowed that down, curling his fingers a little tighter in Bucky’s shirt. “Just--I dunno, Bucky, just think about it. It could be fun.”

He hesitated, looking to the door of the library, then down to where Steve was still holding the sleeve of his t-shirt. Finally, his shoulders slumped. “I’ll _think_ about it, okay?”

The door of the library opened, a spill of noise from the hallway coming in, and Bucky pulled free of Steve’s hold. He shouldered his backpack, pushing past the entering students and out into the hall.

Steve followed a few steps behind, turning in the opposite direction to get to his classroom. It wasn’t a no. Maybe it wasn’t a yes, but... it wasn’t a no.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The real alternate universe is the one where Immigrant Song was remastered before 2007, because the original live version just doesn't have the same kick to it as the remastered 2007 version.


	7. February

His eyes darted from left to right rapidly, pencil twirling between his fingers. Left thermometer, timer, right thermometer. A simple chemistry lab about heat transfer in different materials. Around the classroom’s lab tables, others were doing the same thing, conversation almost nonexistent.

“Steve,” someone whispered from his left, a finger nudging his shoulder. “Hey, Cap.”

“Yeah, Scott?” Two minutes, fifty-five seconds. Left was at 120 degrees Fahrenheit, right was at 48.

“What are you doing for Valentine’s Day?”

Steve’s pencil paused, his eyes flashing over to Scott, brows drawn together. “Um.”

“I got reservations at a pretty nice hibachi place. Do you wanna come with?”

“ _What_?”

Ms. Van Dyne spoke over the class before Scott could continue. “Focus on your experiments, people. Remember, labs are worth 60% of your overall grade.”

“Talk after class,” Steve mumbled, rapidly writing down time stamps and temperatures. 

It wasn’t like he had a problem with--but wasn’t Scott seeing someone? And they were just _friends_ , really, he didn’t think--Steve tried to push it all aside as the class compared notes on their heat transfers, collectively bringing the list of materials from each station up to Ms. Van Dyne for assessment. 

They had a few minutes after the lab, before class ended. Steve dropped into his seat, shuffling away his chemistry notes and lab paperwork.

“So, do you wanna go?” Scott asked, taking a seat beside him and grinning. “I think it’d be fun, and Hope would like you I bet.”

Hope--right, his girlfriend, Natasha had said something, hadn’t she? Or had Scott talked about her himself? “Are you asking me to third wheel with you on Valentine’s Day?”

“I mean, the reservation is for four, so it’d probably be worth it for you to bring a date.”

Steve stared for a moment, his face blank. He sighed. “You couldn’t have opened with that?”

Scott looked equally blank, before his face broke out into a sheepish grin. “Sorry, Cap. We had that part of the conversation in my head. So, you in?”

“I’ll think about it.” He’d have to figure out who to ask. 

Though, he wouldn’t have to think very hard.

* * *

Was it smooth? Probably not. Did it work? Actually, yes.

Steve slid into his seat in art next to Sharon, pulling up his canvas--they’d finally moved on from sculpture to still life, thank _god_ \--and his paints. “Hey,” he started, clearing his throat and making an effort to appear casual. “I hear your aunt wants a new picture for her desk.”

“You spend all your free time with older women?” Sharon raised an eyebrow, dabbing a bit of paint onto the corner of her canvas.

“I proportion it. What do you think about Valentine’s Day?”

“I think it’s usually an excuse for sexist purity talk and overall a waste of time, but keep talking, I wanna see you save this one.”

He floundered for a second, cheeks warming as he focused on his painting. Finally, inspiration struck. “Okay, better question, what do you think about hibachi style dinner?”

“Is that the Japanese food that they cook right in front of you?” Her brush traced the meandering curve of her painting, leaving the faintest line of orange across it. 

“I think so, yeah.”

“Always wanted to try it.”

Well, at least she was warming up to the idea. Steve dove in. “Scott Lang has reservations for four. Him, his girlfriend, me, and whoever I want to invite. I figured I’d ask you.”

Sharon glanced at him, the corner of her mouth curling up. “Was I your first choice, or did someone else turn you down already?”

That made him laugh, the tension of asking her out finally sliding off his shoulders. “Well, your aunt said she had plans…”

“Aunt Peg is a busy woman. But lucky for you, I’m a little less busy. I’ll gladly accompany you.”

He shared with her the rest of the details, including Scott’s address where they’d be meeting before going to the restaurant, as they worked on their art pieces. Hers was good--amazing, really--and Steve felt a pang of something deep in his chest. Warm and fond, the kind of emotion that seemed deeper than just friendship. He certainly didn’t get the same flutter around any of his other friends. Not even Natasha, no matter how much his momma teased him about her.

* * *

In hindsight, Steve knew asking more questions would have been a good idea. This was Scott, after all, and while he didn’t know the other teen _that_ well, ‘doesn’t think everything through’ was practically a neon sign he wore.

“I can take care of this,” Scott offered, looking among their little group, left standing outside the apartment block in their Valentine’s finest. “I have a friend who owes me a favor. Five minutes.” He disappeared around the corner and Steve sighed.

“ _None_ of us has a driver’s license? I mean, my excuse is growing up on a boat, but--Sharon? Hope?”

Sharon shrugged. “Atlanta public transport isn’t too bad and I live within walking distance of the school.”

Hope raised one neat eyebrow. “Well, _Cap_ , my parents thought that a car would distract me from my studies. So I have my license, but no car.”

“I am so sorry,” he muttered to Sharon, touching her arm gently. “I would have asked my mom to give us all a ride if I’d realized--”

A [horn](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eGwXp7ia8gA) honking out a song cut him off, the three of them watching as a beat up brown van rolled up. Scott cranked down the passenger window, grinning. “Problem solved! Everyone climb in, Luis will drive us to dinner.”

Steve glanced at Sharon, grinning helplessly. “Your carriage,” he offered, sliding open the back door and letting her and Hope climb in. He settled into the wide back seat, shaking his head a little. The rest of his friends weren’t gonna _believe_ this.

Soft [music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0AvuweztG4Q) came from the speakers, something he couldn’t quite place (then again, when could he ever?), but found pleasant enough.

“Sorry for the music,” Luis noted, glancing into the rearview mirror as he merged onto the highway. “The radio broke and so I put in a Morrissey CD my grandma had and then the CD player broke, so it’s the only thing that plays.”

“It’s fine,” all three from the back seats chimed in. Not that it particularly mattered, Luis talking over them at a mile a minute. Something about a diner and a jukebox and his grandmother--Steve let that become background noise, too.

He could just see Scott’s face reflected in the windshield, could tell the other teen was grinning like a maniac. Vaguely, he wondered what kind of favor he’d banked to get this last minute ride across town. 

“And then my fourth cousin, Manuela--oh, we’re here.”

The van took a sharp left and despite his seatbelt being firmly on, Steve nearly fell across the back seat. He grabbed onto Sharon’s seat to keep himself in place, wincing at the squeal of brakes.

“Sorry, everyone okay?” Luis parked and shut the van off, looking over his shoulder. “Hey, you kids have fun in there. I’m gonna go see a movie, I’ll be back to pick you up afterwards.”

They piled out of the van, watching as Luis drove off. Steve winced as he careened into traffic, wondering just how they were supposed to survive a ride home.

“Well,” Scott clapped his hands, before offering his arm to Hope. “Dinner awaits.”

Steve followed suit, holding his arm out for Sharon, the four of them making their way into the restaurant. It was busy, no surprise, couples at nearly every table. There were larger groups around tables with hot griddles in the middle, chefs in clean white aprons performing culinary tricks.

The hostess led them through the crowd towards the back, where there were more private hibachi rooms. Midway across the dining room, Steve spotted familiar faces, gave Tony and Pepper a little wave as he passed their table. Odd, he noted, that there was a third chair at it.

The private booth was… _intimate_ was the best word Steve could think of for it. Rather than a large rectangular griddle, it was square, two seats on either side with plates and silverware. Steve flipped through the menu, letting out a nervous laugh.

“I have no idea what to order,” he admitted to Sharon, his voice low. “Never done this before.”

“Me either. But you can’t go wrong with chicken, right?”

In theory. His own cooking experiences said that it was entirely possible to go wrong with chicken, but surely at a restaurant... “Right.” Steve flipped to the drinks section, skimming the list. At least that was mostly familiar territory.

They ordered and settled in to wait for their meal, conversation falling to almost awkward silence. Steve pushed out a breath, smiling across the table. “So, Hope, how’d you and Scott meet?”

Hope grinned, stirring her soda with her straw for a moment before taking a sip. “He broke into my bedroom one night trying to steal back a project from my father.”

“It was mace at first sight,” Scott added as Steve choked on his soda and Sharon laughed. “Right in my eyes. But then she helped me get my project back so I could take out the page of notes talking about how much I hated Pym and actually pass his class. Or, well, try to actually pass.”

“I swear, he has the hardest grading curve out of _anyone_ ,” Sharon groaned, pushing a hand through her hair. “I’m ranked eighth in the senior class and I have a _C_ in physics because of his grading system. My dad almost hit the roof when he saw it.”

“Competition drives ingenuity is what he always said,” Hope offered, shrugging sympathetically.

Sharon shook her head. “Not when Tony Stark _and_ Pepper Potts are in your class. Valedictorian and salutatorian in there, no one else stands a chance.”

Steve took a moment to be grateful he didn’t have to take physics. Van Dyne was tough in chemistry, but she was fair. And Miss Cho in biology put more stock into the efforts they made than the results, which certainly helped his grades. He wasn’t competing for the top spot by any means, but he wasn’t at risk of failing anything.

Food interrupted their conversation, soups and salads brought to them. They grew quieter as they ate, mostly only commenting on the taste, each side of the table falling into lower conversation among themselves.

“Is a C in physics going to hurt your chances at college?” Steve asked between bites of salad. It was good, crisp lettuce and a tangy, gingery sauce.

Sharon shrugged. “I don’t think so. I’ll get accepted or rejected before final grades are in. And criminology doesn’t really care about physics.”

“Criminology?”

“Yeah.” She grinned, brief but bright. “I want to go into the CIA or FBI or something like that. It’s what my mom did.”

“Following in her footsteps?” He could relate, sort of. He’d sent in an application for a biology major at his own momma’s advice.

Her smile was softer this time, tinged with sadness. “Living up to her legacy. Aunt Peggy told me all sorts of stories about her.”

The pieces clicked into place quickly and Steve looked away. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to--”

“It’s okay.” Her hand touched his arm, squeezing for a moment. “I don’t exactly talk about it at school.”

He searched his mind for a lighter topic of conversation, floundering for a moment. The arrival of their chef saved him, the show portion of dinner taking everyone’s focus.

Chicken had been a good choice, though his mouth watered at the shrimp and scallops on Hope’s plate and the steak on Scott’s. There were forks available, but it was more fun to struggle with the chopsticks, he found. And equally as fun to try to defend his plate from Sharon’s quick fingers with them.

“We ordered the same thing, why are you stealing mine?” Steve huffed out, managing to smack her chopsticks away from a piece of his chicken.

“Yours looks tastier.” The chicken had been a diversion, he realized too late, a chunk of mushroom disappearing from the corner of his plate and popping into her mouth. “Yup, definitely tastes better when stolen.”

Steve counter attacked the only way he knew how, stabbing a piece of her chicken with his chopsticks and depositing it onto his own plate. Lacking the finesse she had, maybe, but it was still effective.

Their playful fight over dinner was interrupted by raised voices in the other room, all of their heads turning to look. Steve swallowed a groan. Pepper and Tony. Oh boy…

The dining room had hushed and even from their private booth, they could hear Pepper’s raised voice. “So you’re mad that _Rhodey_ cancelled on _our_ Valentine’s Day dinner?! I can _not_ believe you, Tony Stark--”

“He’s my best friend--” Tony’s attempt to defend himself was definitely falling flat, made flatter when Pepper simply upended her water glass onto his lap.

“I hope you enjoy your dinner alone, Tony. At least now you’re with the only person that _actually_ matters to you.” She stormed off as Tony sputtered and tried to wipe himself up, slamming out of the restaurant.

Slowly, normal conversation resumed, some of the staff coming over to help clean up. Steve turned back to the room, taking in everyone else’s slack-jawed expressions.

“Is it bad that I’m not surprised?”

* * *

Natasha had rounded up a decent crowd for the musical, all things considered. Students milled about in the auditorium, thumbing through pages of sample script, murmuring to each other about the different roles available.

Steve took a seat next to Clint, nervously shuffling his own script. He just wanted to help paint sets, not get on stage and sing or dance, but as soon as he’d come in, he’d been handed a script and a number and been told to be ready to get on stage when he was called.

“Should we run lines together?” He asked lightly, noticing the pages on the empty seat next to Clint. “You know, get some practice in before we have to go up onto the stage?”

“Nah. I’m gonna wing it.” Clint grinned easily, kicking back and propping his feet up on the chair in front of him. “You missed Pepper’s audition for Sandy. She did great. I’ll be floored if she doesn’t land it.”

“Is anyone else trying out for specific roles?”

“Why, you wanna be her Danny Zuko?”

He sputtered, hiding laughter behind his hand. “No, I was just curious. Trust me, if they even let me on stage, it’s gonna be in the way back.”

Clint nodded, his eyes scanning across the stage as another student stepped into the spotlight for an audition. “I just wanna run spotlights, really, but Mr. Coulson insists that if you come in, you have to test your stage presence.”

“Gross.”

The parade of faces across the stage was somewhat familiar: Pietro Maximoff, giving a rushed, monotone performance before he hurried off the stage; Wanda right after him, her words a little more convincing, her posture a little more relaxed; Thor, delivering his lines with red cheeks and his eyes firmly on the ground; Loki, the complete opposite, commanding attention across the stage as he gave a monologue that Steve was _pretty sure_ wasn’t in the script; Tony, another monologuer, though at least his seemed to be from the lines they’d been given; Bruce, also speaking to the floor, but unlike Thor’s booming voice he was barely audible.

“Am I too late?” A voice asked behind him and Steve looked over his shoulder with a grin as Sam sat down. “I didn’t miss your audition, right?”

“No, not ye--”

“Fifty-seven!” Mr. Coulson called and Steve’s heart rate jumped. That was him.

Shit.

He shuffled onto the stage, locking his eyes on the distance and feeling himself flush as he delivered the few lines he’d memorized. “ _Jeez, I wish it was still summer. It’s only quarter after twelve and I feel like I’ve been here a whole year already._ ” He paused, hearing snickers and muffled catcalls. Oh, god, he’d memorized one of the girl’s parts. Too late now. Steve rushed into the song portion, something about mooning and really, he didn’t care anymore, he just wanted to get off the stage.

He barely waited for Mr. Coulson to wave him off before running, dropping back into his seat next to Clint and sinking as low as he possibly could. “I’m going to die.”

“Nah, I think you’ll be a great Pink Lady.” Clint elbowed him lightly, getting up as his number was called. “Dunno how I’m supposed to follow a performance like that…”

Sam was laughing so hard he’d gone silent and breathless behind him, his hand squeezing Steve’s shoulder briefly. Finally, he composed himself enough to speak. “It’s okay, man. It’s okay.”

“Yeah, you say that _now_.”

The rest of the auditions were mostly uneventful. Clint stumbled through his lines, cutting himself off and cursing under his breath before starting over several times. Sam gave a good performance, taking some of Steve’s attention off his own humiliation. Peter stepped up, flushing a deep crimson and stuttering through his lines as Tony called out things like “that’s my boy” and “you’re doing amazing, sweetie!” 

Natasha wrapped up the auditions, taking the center stage with confidence and grace, looking directly at Mr. Coulson as she delivered her lines with a fake smile and no inflection. The smile turned more genuine once she was done, though her tone stayed serious. “Mr. Coulson if you put me on this stage I _will_ ruin your musical.”

“I know, Natasha, but everyone has to audition. Thanks for getting so many people out.” He stood up as she left the stage, climbing up and clapping his hands to get everyone’s attention. “Great job, everyone! I’ll have roles posted outside the drama room by Monday after school. If you’re interested in a stage hand position as well, you can come see me once roles are posted. Thanks for coming to the musical auditions and I look forward to working with all of you!”

It wasn’t until they were in the parking lot, getting into Natasha’s car, that Steve realized who was missing. His heart fell a little, shoulders slumping. Bucky hadn’t decided to come try out for the musical after all.

He pushed those thoughts out of his head--Bucky had only said he’d think about it, after all--and focused on what was coming up. Friday nights at Tony’s had become a routine, a way to decompress after the week at school.

“Hey, you got room for one more?” A voice called and Steve looked up, grinning and waving to Sam.

Natasha rolled to a stop in front of him, jerking her head towards the back seat. “Always got room in the trunk.”

“Hilarious.” Sam tossed his backpack into the back, climbing in next to Steve and stretching out. “This car’s a lot nicer when we’re not speeding away from the cops.”

“Give me five minutes and I can be back in that situation.”

The drive to Tony’s wasn’t a reckless blast away from the cops, something Steve was quietly grateful for. He accepted Clint and Sam’s continued ribbing over his audition with as much humor as he could muster. They’d both done at least well enough that he didn’t have much ammunition to fire back.

Natasha pulled up just behind Tony, shutting the car off and stepping out, the others piling out behind her. “You know, since we’re all coming here, you could at least _offer_ someone else a ride.”

Tony raised an eyebrow, stepping aside as Peter slid out of the back seat behind him. “I don’t count?” He asked, eyes almost comically wide as he looked over to Natasha.

“Shh,” she shushed him immediately, waving a hand. “Grown-ups are talking.”

“I offered Bruce a ride, but he’d rather go in Thor’s rust bucket truck.” Tony shrugged, waving them inside. “I think we’re gonna hang out in the living room today, J.”

“Very well, sir. I’ll prepare an after school snack.” Jarvis held the door for them, giving everyone a smile and a nod. “Good afternoon, everyone. How did musical auditions go?”

There were collective groans from nearly everyone except Tony and Natasha. Steve flushed again, but he’d learned in the last several months--he had to own his awkward moments, or they would own him. “I accidentally tried out for one of the girl’s roles. But I think I have a shot at it.”

“At least you didn’t drop six--or was it seven?--hard F’s in front of a teacher. Mr. Coulson is _never_ gonna let me on stage now,” Clint groaned, flopping onto the couch and kicking his feet onto the coffee table.

“I thought you wanted to run spots. Figured that the constant ‘fucks’ were part of the plan.” Tony turned on the stereo system with a remote, [music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9vWNauaZAgg) blasting through the speakers at an almost ungodly volume.

Peter’s eyes lit up as the song began. “Oh! I love Led Zeppelin!”

Steve might have been the only one who missed the eyerolls of the group. His introduction to Tony’s musical tastes had been cut short on multiple occasions, mostly by the other teen’s frustration with his insistence that it all sounded the same. Led Zeppelin, though, he’d remember that.

They rehashed the auditions, speculating on who might land what roles, ribbing each other for stage presence--or lack thereof, really. Thor and Bruce came in not long after, sprawling out in the living room and helping themselves to the snacks Jarvis had provided.

“I can’t believe that fucking _Loki_ tried out,” Clint said, tossing a handful of grapes into his mouth. “I thought he was too, y’know, emo for a musical.”

“He wants to be a thespian.” Thor shrugged dismissively. “Our mother is quite pleased that we’re both interested.”

“What’d your dad say about it?” Natasha stretched her legs out, one bare foot kicking Thor’s shoulder lightly. “You _did_ tell him you were gonna do it, right?”

“I… have not yet.” He grasped her ankle, fingers poised threateningly at the bottom of her foot. “I’m going to see if Coulson lets me on stage before I say anything.”

Natasha jerked her foot away with a huff, leveling him with a look. “ _Thor_. We talked about this.”

Clint nodded emphatically. “Yeah, man. You have the most chill parents ever. I mean, he didn’t care about the Halloween party, why would he care about you trying out for the musical?”

“Because it’s not football. It’s not…” Thor shrugged, waving his hand. “Part of the _legacy_.”

“Legacy shmegacy,” Tony declared, pushing himself to sit up. “It’s all just for fun anyways, right?”

Sam nodded. “I mean, it’s high school. It’s not like anyone’s gonna remember who did what at the musical in fifteen years.”

“I dunno. I feel like people are going to remember Pepper Potts as the best Sandy since Olivia Newton-John.” Clint paused, looking around with a frown. “Hey, speaking of, where--”

Natasha kicked him in the side and he snapped his mouth shut. Too late, though, they could all already sense Tony’s mood shift.

“Yeah… she’s gonna be great. Whoever ends up playing Danny is gonna be a lucky guy.”

Bruce slid over to Tony, patting his shoulder. “C’mon, Tony, it ain’t that bad. She’s been mad at you before, you two will make it up.”

Pepper’s absence from their lunch table had been conspicuous since Valentine’s Day, but as far as Steve knew, he was the only one with details on what had happened. Natasha _probably_ had an idea, but Tony had been shockingly silent about it.

Someone had to save the mood. Steve wracked his brain, looking around their little group. “Well, uh--Wanda, Wanda Maximoff did great, I bet she gets a role,” he squeaked out, the words hanging awkwardly in the silence before Peter snorted a laugh into his hands.

“Pietro not so much. Who was he staring at the whole time?”

Clint raised his hand. “Not gonna lie, I kind of sabotaged him. I winked right before he started talking.”

“You are _so_ full of shit.” Steve shoved him, almost knocking him off the couch. “I was sitting right next to you, you didn’t wink.”

“Hey, I got two eyes, maybe I winked with my right eye!”

He’d successfully lightened the mood, and conversation moved from the musical to weekend plans to complaints about classes. They had a big project to do in history, and the first big round of exams for the spring semester were rapidly approaching.

“Oh yeah, Thor, any updates from Quill? Is he dead?” Clint sat forward, grabbing a handful of popcorn as he spoke.

“Well, he’s not dead.” Thor grinned, looking among the group. “Should I start at the beginning?”

Sam nodded. “Please. I’m lost. Who’s Quill?”

“Peter Quill used to go to our school, but he moved to Novacore’s district in eleventh grade. He’s captain of their football team now,” Thor started, nodding to Clint.

“And Novacore kids are fucking crazy, I know, I used to go there,” Clint added. “We’re talking girls who holepunch their nails to make them into more effective eye gougers crazy. Especially these two sisters, Gamora and Nebula. They _hate_ each other.”

“Holy shit.” Peter swallowed. “Glad my apartment got rezoned.”

Thor snorted. “Yeah, so Quill has been going there for like a year now, and he’s survived just fine. But this time he really messed up. See, he’s had the biggest crush on Gamora since he first saw her, and this year he finally asked her out. Brought her to my Halloween party, she was the one with the knife.”

Steve nodded along. She’d stabbed one of Bucky’s friends, supposedly. 

“Except when he called to ask her on a second date after Halloween, Nebula answered and assumed he was asking _her_ out, and agreed, and so he accidentally started dating both of them.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “The man is living in a terrible rom com.”

“Don’t be jealous that you can’t get two psychopaths to agree to go out with you, Tony.” Bruce nudged him, shaking his head. “So how’s this story end? Last I heard, he was trying to sort out Valentine’s Day?”

“Well, he decided to come clean, so he invited them both to Valentine’s Day dinner with him. Same place, same time, same date. He was going to explain that he liked them both and didn’t mean to lead either of them on, it was all a misunderstanding.”

Clint cut in. “But if you were at Halloween, you can guess how Gamora would react to that. And Nebula? Turn it up to eleven.”

“The good news is he didn’t get stabbed. The bad news is that, to only Quill’s surprise, they both showed up together already _knowing_ what was going on. As he put it when he called me, Gamora ‘missed the first time, then got them both the second time.’ And Nebula stole his wallet. Honestly I think the only reason he survived was that some of the Guardians players were there to physically restrain the girls.”

Everyone winced in sympathy, before Natasha laughed. “He deserves it. Don’t two-time, especially not with your date’s sibling. Even if it was a mistake.”

At least that conversation about Valentine’s Day didn’t lead into more questions about what had happened between Tony and Pepper. Instead focus stayed on Thor, Natasha’s face serious. “Speaking of Valentine’s…”

Thor groaned. “Please don’t.”

“You didn’t ask her, did you?”

“I _tried_ , honest! We were in class and I asked if Jane had plans and she said she might and then I dropped it.” Thor buried his head in his hands, glancing up when everyone only looked at him. “And then afterwards Darcy told me during lab that Jane’s _plans_ were to wait for me to ask her out. I messed it up again.”

“That’s rough, buddy.” Clint reached over, patting Thor on the shoulder sympathetically. “It’s not too late to ask her on just, like, a casual date, you know?”

“Starting to feel too late. We were talking in class about college, and I mentioned I was up for a sports scholarship at GSU. She said she was thinking about going out west, Arizona or New Mexico, for physics.”

Slowly, conversation moved off of Valentine’s day, off of relationships in general, and into more casual territory. What movies were coming out, what video games, complaints about homework; the typical Friday night at Tony’s, complete with a rotating selection of [music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Elr2KQs9Ffk) mostly controlled by Clint and snacks provided by Jarvis.

Natasha drove him home that night, dropping off Sam and Clint before heading to Steve’s house. He settled into the front seat next to her, looking out the window to try to avoid the glances she kept giving him. No luck. Steve finally turned as she pulled into his driveway, sighing. “What?”

“What happened at Valentine’s Day? I know you know.”

“You don’t know?”

Natasha’s smile was a quick, secretive flash. “I only pretend to know everything.”

Was it wrong to tell her? She was his friend. Still… “Are you going to use it against either of them?”

“Steven Grant Rogers, I am shocked and appalled that you think I would do that.”

“Why does everyone know my middle name?” Steve muttered, looking down. “Tony invited Rhodey along on their Valentine’s date. Pepper got mad about it and dumped him. By dumping a glass of water on him in the restaurant.”

A sympathetic wince crossed Natasha’s face. “So not the usual ‘Tony said something stupid’ I was expecting. I doubt she’ll get over it any time soon. That information stays quiet, I guess. Anyone else know about it?”

“I mean, Sharon Carter, Scott Lang, and Hope Van Dyne were all there with me. And I don’t know who else was eating there.” Steve shrugged. “What’d you do for Valentine’s Day, anyways?” He needed the subject change. He didn’t want to be left to dwell on his friends’ relationship drama.

“Oh, Clint and I did the same thing we do every year. Ordered pizza and watched horror movies. _The Descent_ is pretty creepy, do recommend.”

Steve shook his head. “I swear, you two are soul mates and just won’t admit it.”

“You mean like you and Bucky? You _did_ ask him to come try out for the musical, right?” She raised her eyebrows, smile turning teasing.

“I asked, he said maybe, he decided not to. But at least I asked. And we’re not soul mates, we barely speak to each other. Don’t go telling people something different.”

Natasha shrugged dismissively. “But when you are together, you make such a complete picture. Like yin and yang. Anyways, I’ll see you Monday.”

He climbed out of the car, leaning back in the window after he shut the door. “Yin and yang implies that we’re opposites, which we’re not. Trust me, Ancient One went on a whole lecture about it during art last week.” Natasha stuck her tongue out and Steve stuck his out right back, waving as she drove off. He let himself into the house, greeting his momma and settling in to eat dinner and tell her about his audition. It wasn’t until later, lying in bed and trying to fall asleep, that he let his mind drift to Bucky, let the real disappointment of his decision sink in. Steve had been hoping, however small the chance, that Bucky would be different after their winter break together. Maybe it was time to accept that he wouldn’t be.

* * *

For a Sunday, the mall was pretty crowded.

Steve and Sam meandered around, sipping smoothies from the kiosk, ducking in and out of different stores that caught their interest. There wasn’t anything good playing at the movie theater and the arcade was currently closed for a private event, so that mostly left them to window shop.

It was better, really, walking around and shooting the breeze. He hadn’t gotten to spend nearly as much time with Sam as he’d had before, and Steve missed the other teen. Missed his infectious laughter, his sharp sense of humor, the vibe they created together. Minor chaos and major sarcasm, that was Steve and Sam.

By the time they decided to call it an afternoon, they were at the far end of the mall. The pay phone block was back by the movie theater, and while they could have wound their way over inside, it was easier to go outside and around. Less crowds out on the sidewalks, at least. Steve’s momma had offered to let him borrow her cell phone when she’d dropped them off, but he’d turned that down--the payphones worked fine and he didn’t want to have to field her work calls.

They were maybe halfway back when Sam nudged his elbow lightly. “We’re being followed.”

Steve frowned, glanced over his shoulder as casually as he could. Three figures trailing behind them, maybe fifteen feet back. He looked forward again, gauged the distance to the mall entrance. “I doubt I can run that far.”

“Not gonna abandon you, don’t worry.” 

The mall entrance was too far away, but there was an opening coming up, an alley between wings that held dumpsters and an emergency exit. Steve glanced towards the parking lot, hoping against hope for one of the rent-a-cops to roll by, but no such luck.

It was surreal, like something out of a bad movie. Just as they reached the entrance to the alley, the footsteps behind them began to rush, and bodies slammed into the two of them, shoved them into the alleyway. Steve stumbled to the ground, scraped up his arm on the pavement as he braced against the fall. He hauled himself upright, checked on Sam beside him--seemed okay, maybe a little shaken--then turned to face their assailants.

Brock Rumlow, standing in the entrance of the alley, arms crossed and smirking, flanked by Arnim Zola and Alexander Pierce. The _bad movie_ vibe wasn’t decreasing any.

“What the fuck, man?” Sam snapped out, taking a step forward. Steve followed him up, desperately hoping this wouldn’t come to blows.

“I don’t have a problem with you, so don’t make one,” Brock snapped back, his glare moving to Steve. “ _You_ on the other hand…”

There had to be a way to de-escalate this situation. Steve swallowed, holding up his hands. “I didn’t do anything.”

“The only thing that kept me from rearranging your face before was your pal, your buddy, your _Bucky_ and guess who’s not here right now because _you_ got him fucking grounded.”

Life was a terrible movie and Steve was going to get his ass kicked by a wannabe greaser because he’d made _one_ phone call. He remembered when he’d thought that going to public school would be fun. Oh, what a fool he’d been back then.

“Man,” Sam huffed beside him, taking another step forward, almost nose to nose with Brock. “Shut the hell up.”

“You don’t wanna do this, little man. Run off now and maybe we’ll forget we ever saw you.”

It was like slow motion. Steve watched Sam’s fists clench and relax at his sides, watched his shoulders tense. His arms came up and he planted both palms firmly on Brock’s chest and _shoved_ , sending him stumbling backwards. The look of surprise on his face was almost comical. The surprise on Arnim and Alexander’s faces _was_ comical.

“Run, idiot!” Sam shouted at him and Steve stuttered, looked at the opening between the three as Sam darted through it.

“I can’t run!” It was probably dumb, probably _really dumb_ , but he felt frozen in place, helpless to do anything but watch. Sam would run away and Steve would get his face rearranged in this filthy alley and that would be the end of the terrible movie his life had suddenly become.

“God dammit, Steve. Then punch one of them!” Sam wasn’t running away, he was back, was throwing himself physically at Brock as the other teen shook off his surprise.

Steve looked between Arnim--short, terrified, eyes wide behind his glasses--and Alexander--taller, looking a little more confident--and picked the easier target. He swung his fist in a wide blow that connected with Arnim’s shoulder rather than his face, trying to tamp down the pang of regret as the other teen yelped.

Arms wrapped around his shoulders from behind and Steve struggled, jerking around far enough to see Brock and Sam grappling on the ground. Brock got Sam down onto his back on the pavement, sat up over him and drew his fist back. “You just had to get involved.”

Before he could start pummeling Sam’s face into a new and interesting shape, however, something pink splattered into the side of his head. Brock whipped sideways as Natasha stepped into the alleyway, wiping smoothie off himself. “You want some of this, too, bitch?”

“God you’re charming.” She rolled her eyes, loosening her shoulders out and flashing Steve a grin before all hell broke loose.

Arnim was already halfway to running away from Steve’s pathetic attempt at a punch, and it only took a kick to the seat of his pants from Natasha to send him the rest of the way out of the fight. Alexander let Steve go, cracking his knuckles and stepping up, but she was agile and knew what she was doing--this wasn’t some alley brawl to Natasha. One hand grabbed Alexander’s forearm when he took a swing at her, she planted her foot on the inside of his leg and threw him out of the alleyway onto his ass.

Brock had gotten off of Sam, delivered a kick to him that left him wheezing on the ground. He looked at Steve, fury contorting his face, before glancing at Natasha, much less certain. “This ain’t over, weirdo,” he hissed, edging past Natasha and out of the alley.

“Holy shit,” Steve finally choked out as Natasha came over. She knelt down next to Sam, touching his shoulder gently.

“I’m always cleaning up after the men in my life. Sam, talk to me, you okay?”

“We probably shoulda run. He kicked my fucking knee, hurts like a bitch.” Sam sat up slowly, groaning and rubbing his knee through his jeans. “My mom’s gonna rip me up one side and down the other for getting in a fight.”

“We’ll think of something else to tell her. C’mon. Steve, help me out.”

The two of them got their shoulders under Sam’s arms, helped carry him out of the alley and to Natasha’s car, thankfully not too far away. Steve eased Sam into the back seat before turning to her, raising an eyebrow. “So, not that I’m ungrateful for the rescue, but what are you doing here?”

“Clint’s participating in a skee ball tournament at the arcade, I was dropping him off. Spotted the asshole squad on the way to my car and figured they were making trouble for someone. I might have left it alone, until I realized it was you.” She shrugged, tucking some of her red hair behind her ear. “You woulda done the same for me, yeah?”

“Probably not as effectively. Thanks.” He rubbed his fist, looking down at the swelling skin. “Shit.”

“You need to learn how to throw a punch. Come on, we’ll take Sam to Bruce’s. Dr. Banner can take a look at the both of you.”

It wasn’t until they were pulling into the driveway that Steve realized why Dr. Banner needed to take a look at both of them. Sam had clearly taken the brunt of it, his knee swelling up under his jeans until they were tight and stiff around his leg, but Steve had his own pile of aches and pains. He’d split open the skin on his knuckles punching Arnim and his forearm was scraped up, little bits of gravel in the skin. Considering how it could have ended if Natasha hadn’t shown up, he wasn’t too worried.

Bruce met them at the door, eyes wide as they helped Sam inside. “Mom!” He called, guiding them into the living room, pushing the coffee table over and getting a pillow for Sam to prop his leg on.

The woman that came into the room took one look at the scene and sighed. “You know, I’m not that kind of doctor. Get the first aid kit from the upstairs bathroom, Bruce.” She sat down next to Sam, speaking low and calm. “Tell me everything that happened.”

Sam talked, Steve and Natasha adding in as needed, while she worked--first cutting his jeans away from his injured knee, then bandaging it up. Dr. Banner moved on to Steve next, taping up his knuckles and flushing the dirt and gravel out of the scrape on his arm before bandaging that. Her eyebrows knit together when they admitted to Sam making it physical, flashing to each member of the group.

“And it was just you three and those three? No one else saw what happened?”

Steve shook his head. “If anyone else had been around, I don’t think they would have tried it.”

She sighed, sitting back and looking to Natasha. “And you’re the one that physically stopped them?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Dr. Banner shrugged, her smile turning slightly amused. “I know boys like that, I work with a lot of them. The majority will never admit that a _girl_ beat them in a fight. I don’t think anything major will come of this, but be careful about who you talk to and how you talk. And Sam? Get to a real doctor about your knee.”

All three of them looked down for a moment, properly chastised, before Sam let out a little laugh. “Oh hey, this means I’m out from under Thanos’ thumb again. At least for a little while.”

Steve snorted, clapping his shoulder gently. “Good. The library is too quiet with just me and Mr. Killmonger.”


	8. March

The piece of paper posted outside the drama department room was unassuming, easy to miss, but Steve’s focus still centered in on it. He skimmed the list of names and roles, letting out a long exhale. There it was, in black and white.

_Steve Rogers…………………………...Jan_

The door to Mr. Coulson’s room was closed, and Steve stepped up to it, trying the handle. It turned easily, cracked open and let voices spill out from inside.

“...refuse to believe that I didn’t even land a _role_ , nevermind the _lead,_ I was the best performer on that stage Friday!”

Steve peeked in, almost unsurprised to see Loki pacing back and forth in front of Mr. Coulson’s desk.

For his part, Mr. Coulson looked almost _bored_ , his hands folded in front of him and a small frown on his face. “You lack conviction. That’s why you’re an understudy. Practice during this musical, try out again next year.”

Loki threw his hands up, turning and storming out of the room, pushing past Steve on the way.

Mr. Coulson watched him go, before turning to Steve with a smile. “Well, if it isn’t one of my Pink Ladies. Please tell me you’re not here to complain about your role or back out.”

“I mean, I only showed up on Friday to offer my set painting services, but if you really want me up on stage, I guess I’ll do it.” Steve stepped inside the room, scratching the back of his neck lightly. “I don’t have to wear a dress, do I? Not sure I can pull that off as well as Clint.”

“We’ll make some modifications to the script, no worries. Theater is meant to be interpretive anyways. As far as set painting…” He nodded to his desk and Steve stepped closer, leaning over to look at the various sketches and notes Mr. Coulson had. It was a lot of work to do on his own, but there were a few other kids in his art class who might be interested. 

Steve stopped to look at the cast list again as he left the drama room, unable to help a laugh as he really read it, rather than just skimming for his own name.

 _Tony Stark…………………………...Danny Zuko  
_ _Pepper Potts…………………………...Sandy Dumbrowski  
_ **_T Birds  
_ ** _Thor Odinson…………………………...Kenickie  
_ _Scott Lang…………………………...Doody  
_ _Pietro Maximoff…………………………...Roger  
_ **_Pink Ladies  
_ ** _Jane Foster…………………………...Rizzo  
_ _Steve Rogers…………………………...Jan  
_ _Wanda Maximoff…………………………...Frenchy  
_ **_Other Roles  
_ ** _Bruce Banner…………………………...Vince Fontaine  
_ _Peter Parker…………………………...Teen Angel  
_ _Michelle Jones…………………………...Patty Simcox  
_ _Sam Wilson…………………………...Cha Cha DiGregorio  
_ **_Understudies  
_ ** _Loki Odinson, Clint Barton, Darcy Lewis, Ned Leeds_

Hell of a cast. He wasn’t sure who every person was, nor what each role entailed, but he was looking forward to finding out. Add in that apparently Scott had tried out--and landed a role--without Steve noticing and he was definitely going to have questions in chemistry tomorrow. Assuming he had time for them.

Practice would start the following day after school, almost two full months of daily rehearsals, not to mention weekends. It was a big time commitment, something that really only just occurred to Steve as he looked at the schedule next to the cast list. On top of school work…

Well, he reasoned, it would prepare him for college. And he had plenty of friends involved to help him balance it, too.

And speaking of his friends, he was surprised they weren’t crowded around the drama room, most of them had tried out for the musical after all. Steve made his way outside, weaving across the quad and dropping his backpack to the ground next to Thor. He took a seat, looking to the other teen with a raised eyebrow. “Ready to pretend we can act?”

Thor groaned. “So I got a part? I asked Natasha to look for me and she only gave me that _look_ when I saw her after her drama class.”

Steve’s lips pursed together. “You don’t sound excited. Why’d you try out, if you didn’t want to be in it?”

“Everyone else was. Natasha convinced me to. And…” His cheeks lit up, bright red in the afternoon sun. “And Jane said she was going to.”

“Jane… Foster?” Steve guessed, grinning. “She’s playing Rizzo and you’re playing Kenickie. Hey, maybe you should go tell her the good news.”

“I... If she doesn't know by class tomorrow, maybe. We have astronomy together. It’s a special elective, taught by Doctor Selvig. You can only take it if you’ve already taken physics. I’m terrible at English, but science--science is easy.” He shrugged a little easier, looking across the quad. “Loki was supposed to meet me out here and tell me if he got a role.”

Did Steve want to break the bad news? Probably not. But it was probably better to be prepared than surprised. He exhaled slowly. “He’s an understudy. I heard him talking to Mr. Coulson about it. Apparently he lacks conviction.”

Thor’s groan this time was deeper, long-suffering. “ _That_ will be the topic of conversation at dinner for the next month, but forewarned is forearmed. Who else is in the musical?”

“Pepper is playing Sandy and Tony is playing Danny. You, Pietro, and Scott Lang are playing the rest of the T Birds. Pink Ladies are Jane Foster, Wanda, and…” It was Steve’s turn to blush, his fingers digging into the grass around him. “And me. I got one of the girls roles. Mr. Coulson said he’d modify the script.”

“And what a lovely lady you’ll be,” a new voice chimed in, Clint dropping down beside him with a grin. “I can’t believe I landed an understudy role with _that_ audition.”

Natasha folded herself down to sit, giving Steve a raised eyebrow. “I told Mr. Coulson during drama class that you wouldn’t mind."

“You take drama?” Steve snorted, looking between them. He knew they had the same schedule--that had to be Natasha’s demand.

Clint shrugged. “Don’t knock the optional English credits. Especially when it’s the only one Ms. Danvers doesn’t teach.” He laughed briefly. “Though she still has to suffer through me being in her homeroom.”

Natasha’s eyes were still on him, her brows knit together. “You’re not going to drop out because you’re playing a girl, right?”

“I don’t think I’m the best choice for the role, but I’m fine with it. Has anyone dropped out yet?”

She shook her head. “Not yet, but I haven’t heard if Pepper saw who her co-lead is. I’ll be amazed if she wants to stick it out with him.”

Shadows fell over them as Natasha spoke, and Pepper laughed. “Then prepare to be amazed, Natasha. I’m actually looking forward to this. Seeing Tony put some actual effort into something is a rare treat.”

Steve looked up, giving Sharon a quick smile. “No musical for you?”

“I can’t carry a tune in a bucket. Besides, if Pepper’s going to be doing that, the yearbook council is going to need me around. Someone has to keep senior superlatives afloat and it sure as hell won’t be Eddie Brock.”

They all heard Tony’s voice carrying across the quad, and Pepper’s smile dropped, her mouth in a thin line. She nodded to Sharon, giving the rest of the group a short wave before walking off.

Clint groaned. “That? That is going to be hell.”

Tony was mid-rant when he approached them, flanked by Bruce and Peter, and it took no intuition to guess he was going on about the musical, about starring opposite of Pepper. They let him wind himself down, finally, before Natasha snapped her fingers.

“Guess who was coming out of Mr. Coulson’s room while we were on our way in.”

“Couldn’t begin to.” Steve shook his head, names flitting through his mind regardless. Maybe Scott? Sam was out for a doctor appointment.

“James Barnes. After his first period auto shop class, he was down there, and Mr. Coulson was talking about making mock up cars today.”

For a moment, Steve completely blanched. Surely he’d heard wrong. There was no way--Bucky hadn’t shown up for tryouts. He’d made his position on the musical pretty clear from his actions. “ _No_ ,” he finally managed, startled almost into a question.

“Hey, I saw him too,” Clint pointed out, rolling onto his stomach and gesturing across the quad. “Wonder if he’s told the rest of the jerk squad that he’s gonna be hanging out with a bunch of Weirdos for the foreseeable future.”

“Thor,” Bruce’s voice, low but intense, cut across the conversations. The big blond had fallen silent as the others had joined them, lying back and looking up at the sky. “You _have_ to tell him.”

“Loki will, I’m sure.”

“Your mom’s going to be proud of you, I’m sure you dad will, too.”

“Bruce.” Thor pushed himself up, fixing a stare on the other teen. “He’s not going to _care_. I didn’t take us to state championships this year and it was my last chance. Being in the musical isn’t going to fix that.” He groaned, rubbing his temples. “Loki doesn’t care what our parents think of him, but I can’t help it.”

Natasha scooted over to Thor’s other side, squeezing his shoulder quickly. “I can go with, if you want. I’m pretty good at disappointing my own parents, love to try someone else’s.”

That cracked the sour look on his face, his hand closing on hers for a moment. “You’re all going to bully me into telling him, aren’t you?”

“Yep,” Clint spoke up, his ‘p’ popping.

“Absolutely,” Tony agreed.

“I’m not sure what’s going on, but sure,” Steve added with a nod.

“Then… then fine. I’ll tell him tonight and let you all know tomorrow during lunch.”

Natasha grinned, shaking his shoulder quickly. “Good boy.”

“Who’s a good boy?” They all craned up in surprise, looking at Scott Lang as he stood over them. “Sorry to overhear, this seems like the musical crowd.”

“Hey, Scott, have a seat. I didn’t even know you tried out.” Steve waved him down, moving over to make room in their little circle.

“I had detention, so I basically showed up as soon as classes ended and then bailed.” Scott dropped down, looking around the group. “Uh, hi, I think we’ve all met before? I’m Scott. Cap and I have chemistry.”

“The class,” Steve added hastily, almost feeling Clint get ready to open his mouth and say something. “We have chemistry _class_. Together. At the same time.”

“Denial makes the heart grow stronger, Steve.” Clint snorted.

“It’s _distance_ makes the heart grow _fonder_. _God_.” Tony groaned, rubbing his temples. “This is why Ms. Danvers hates you.”

“My shit memory for shitty idioms is definitely not why she hates me. She hates me because of my project on the _Canterbury Tales_ where I clearly just watched _A Knight’s Tale_ with Heath Ledger instead of reading the book.”

“They’re not even close to the same story!” Tony’s voice pitched up with nearly every word, sending the whole group into laughter.

The school grounds were emptying out as students caught busses or went to their cars to go home. Normally they’d all be long gone by now, scattered in all directions, but it was nice out for the first time in a while, the grass of the quad not soggy with cold rain. Sun warmed his shoulders as Steve talked and laughed with the group. That first day of school, when he’d eaten lunch alone in the bathroom, felt ages away now.

* * *

Mr. Killmonger met them at the door to the library, his brow creasing into a frown as soon as he saw Steve and Sam. “What are you doing back on crutches?”

“Sprained my knee. It’s only for three weeks this time.” Sam smiled, sheepish.

“Right, well, I need a coffee before I deal with you two being back together. Steve, go drop your stuff off in there and then you two can follow me to the teacher’s lounge.” He waved Steve into the room, turning and locking the door behind him. The three of them headed down the hall to the teacher’s lounge, a familiar walk to Steve by this time. Mr. Killmonger usually needed a coffee at some point during his study hall.

They weren’t allowed in the actual lounge, nor were they allowed to stay in the library unsupervised, so he’d spent a number of awkward moments hovering outside the door, jerking his thumb in at Mr. Killmonger when Happy passed by and gave him a quizzical look. 

Sam leaned back against the wall, tilting his head back and sighing. “I really just wanted to sit down.”

“Yeah, well, Mr. Killmonger _without_ his fix is worse than with it.”

“Hey, no talking,” the teacher called from inside the room, before his voice dropped. “Dammit, Carol, you’re supposed to make a fresh pot when you take the last of it.”

Ms. Danvers laughed. “And you’re supposed to be cutting back on the caffeine. Maybe I should tell T’Challa…?”

“This is only my second afternoon fix this week.”

“It’s Tuesday, Erik.”

Telling silence, before Mr. Killmonger groaned. “Why am I the only one that gets lectured about this? Stephen drinks twice as much coffee as I do.”

“But my overprotective cousin doesn’t work at the school,” Nurse Strange’s voice rose from the room.

“All of you could benefit from some herbal tea, if I’m being honest. The tension headaches would just disappear.” The Ancient One, no question there.

“I like tea as much as the next person, don’t get me wrong, but have you _seen_ who I have to work with on the musical?” That voice was less familiar. Steve leaned around the doorway, peeking in. Mr. Coulson sat opposite Ms. Danvers at a table, papers spread in front of him. Further in the room, The Ancient One was seated on a cushion on the floor, her back to the room. Mr. Killmonger stood near a counter, next to Nurse Strange.

“Better you than me. I had three years of Clint Barton’s shenanigans, I’ve done my time. And somehow he still ended up in my homeroom…”

“Carol, aren’t you supposed to be teaching a class right now?”

Ms. Danvers audibly sipped her coffee. “Maria’s watching them watch a movie. I’m fine, Phil. But really, I can’t believe you even put him as an understudy. I wouldn’t risk him being on stage.”

“He’s not the problem. The _problem_ is Loki Odinson.” Mr. Coulson groaned.

“Surprised it’s not Tony Stark,” Nurse Strange cut in. Steve wasn’t looking anymore, but he _swore_ he heard the man start rubbing his temples. “Why did you cast him as the lead? His ego doesn’t need it.”

“Says the school nurse who insists on going by Doctor,” Mr. Killmonger said, just audible under the sound of coffee brewing. 

“I _am_ a doctor, thank you v--”

“Stephen, do you have any new pictures of Cloaky?” The Ancient One cut off the impending fight, and footsteps sounded from the room.

“I do, actually. And, for the hundredth time, his name is Levi--”

“Cloaky?” Sam whispered, raising an eyebrow.

Steve nodded. “Strange’s cat. He puts it in sweaters because it’s hairless and gets cold.”

“Jesus Christ.”

Oh, if only Sam knew. Mr. Killmonger hadn’t brought them down to the teacher’s lounge for coffee during the first semester, but once it was just him and Steve, the trips happened at least once a week. Steve knew all sorts of details he wished he didn’t about the relationships between his teachers.

Like that Mr. Vision was completely smitten with Miss Friday, the computer lab monitor--he had a hard time looking his math teacher in the eye, after hearing him wax poetic about her file organization program. Or that Mr. Pym and Ms. Van Dyne were on the verge of a messy divorce, and that was why Hope was living in New Jersey. The primary argument seemed to be over whether their daughter would major in chemistry or physics in college. Or--

“...that James Barnes came down to talk to me about the musical.” Mr. Coulson’s words caught Steve’s attention and he tuned back into eavesdropping. Why was he talking about Bucky?

“You have to drag it out of him with almost literal torture, but he’s got a knack for most things language. Does he want a role?” Ms. Danvers asked.

“No, nothing like that. He said Johann was offering extra credit in shop for helping and wanted to weld together some cars.”

“Really? I didn’t--”

Mr. Killmonger’s voice, much closer, overrode Ms. Danvers. “Okay, you two, fun’s over.” He led them back to the library, sipping from his absurdly large travel mug on the way. “Better bring my extra coffee pot back in…”

Steve took a seat at their usual table, kicking out a chair for Sam to prop his leg up on. As soon as Mr. Killmonger was out of earshot, he turned to the other teen, pitching his voice low.

“Are you going to be good for the musical? You got a role.”

“As long as Mr. Coulson doesn’t make me dance, I should be fine. Practice starts today after school, right?”

Steve nodded. “Every day for the next two months, then it’s show time.” He pulled a piece of paper from his notebook, passing it over. Natasha had taken the time to write down everyone who was in the musical and what role they were playing, as well as the crew assignments. Steve had to wonder if Mr. Coulson had given her that list, or if she’d just figured it out on her own. “Don’t laugh, I’m playing one of the girls.”

Sam glanced over it, before snorting. “So am I. Cha Cha DiGregorio is a girl’s role. And a dancer. Great.” He sighed, passing the paper back. “Then again, only like five girls tried out for the musical.”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed that this school is sort of…” Steve waved a hand.

“A sausage fest?”

“ _Male dominated_. It’s weird.”

Sam shrugged, dismissive. “There were a lot more girls at the private sports school. Maybe suburban Atlanta just has a strangely high proportion of ladies with athletic prowess? Leaving us poor suckers to all cram into two public schools. At least we didn’t land in the crazy one.”

That sent a shiver up his spine. Between Clint’s old stories and the ones about Peter Quill relayed by Thor, Steve was more than grateful to be going to SML rather than Novacore. Things at the school were crazy, but no one had pulled a knife on him, at least.

* * *

It was chaos in the auditorium.

Surprisingly quiet chaos, but chaos nonetheless. Steve walked in with Bruce, had met him at their lockers, and they had both almost immediately been swept up by Natasha.

“Help me,” she whispered, pulling Bruce’s arm, dragging Steve along by proxy.

Backstage, Tony and Pepper were sitting near each other, glaring in opposite directions.

Steve tried not to let the oncoming headache build. Things hadn’t really gotten better since February.

Clint had settled himself between them, about the last place Steve would want to be, and looked genuinely relieved when the three of them approached.

“Tony,” Bruce sighed, dropping into the chair Clint vacated, tapping the other teen on the knee. “Come on, man.”

“ _She’s_ being unreasonable.”

Pepper’s back straightened, her eyes flashing to Tony. Between them, Bruce actually ducked. “ _I’m_ being unreasonable? _You’re_ the one that refuses to even _look_ at a script, Anthony Edward Stark!”

“I don’t need it! I already memorized all my lines!”

“That is _bullcrap_ and you know it! There’s more to a musical than just lines, there’s blocking, and timing, and--”

“Whoa, whoa, hey.” Bruce held up his hands, looking around the small crowd somewhat helplessly. “My mom’s a psychiatrist, not me. Tony, why don’t you come with me and we’ll work on stage composition. Pepper, Steve’s here now, the two of you can run lines together.”

It seemed to work, dragging their stars to opposite ends of the auditorium. Steve found a script with his name on it, his lines highlighted. He gave Pepper a smile, glancing down and flipping through pages. “So, do you wanna start with--”

“He’s just so _arrogant_. Refuses to admit when he’s made a mistake, or can’t do something, or…” Pepper sighed, turning pages in her own script. “Sorry, I shouldn’t drag you into my fight. You’re Tony’s friend, anyways.”

“I mean, I think of myself as a friend to both of you. Look, Tony did something crappy, we all know it. But…” He frowned, gesturing across the room. “It at least _looks_ like he’s trying with this, right? I mean, I literally just got my script, and he’s got all his lines memorized already? That’s not really a no-effort task. Maybe he’s trying to do a good job here to make up with you after Valentine’s Day.”

She followed his gaze, the script crumpling in her hands for a moment. When Pepper turned back to him, there were tears in her eyes. Steve braced himself. “He doesn’t know what it’s like to have to actually work for things. I practiced in the mirror for weeks before I went up on stage, and I was shaking like a leaf the whole time. I spend so much time after school with studying, and extracurriculars, and ways to round out my transcripts to get into a good college. And I’m still second place to him when he doesn’t even try. I just--I wanted to do this musical for fun. Work hard to make it good, but have it be something fun, something my senior year that didn’t matter. But now he’s here, and I feel like I have to be perfect. Like if there’s a single flaw in my performance, it’ll prove that he’s just better than me.”

He hadn’t expected to have all that dropped on him during the first rehearsal. Steve shifted his weight, measuring his response. “So why can’t it be both? I think--I think the more fun we have with it, the better the show will be. We shouldn’t mess around and not practice, but there’s no reason it has to be perfect. Besides,” he smiled, relief flooding him as Pepper tentatively smiled back, “I have it on pretty good authority that Tony’s just as afraid of screwing up.”

“You’re a good guy, Steve. No wonder Sharon likes you.” Pepper’s smile grew, one arm wrapping around him in a quick hug.

“And her aunt. Can’t forget that her aunt likes me, too.”

“And her aunt. Let’s go find Wanda and Jane, work on some group scenes, yeah?”

Well, he’d salvaged something from the situation, at least. Steve followed Pepper as they went hunting for their fellow Pink Ladies, giving Natasha a little wave and shrugging thumbs up. He’d done his best with the situation.

Mr. Coulson was passing from group to group, checking in on them, offering instructions. None of this was familiar to Steve, but he had to assume at least someone had done something similar before--this was probably all normal. He sat on the floor with Pepper, Wanda, and Jane, read the lines for their group scenes, tried to get the tone and timing to match the girls’.

“Steve, a word?” Mr. Coulson called and he stood, brushing off the seat of his jeans.

“What’s up?”

“I know you’re interested in set painting, do you have your class schedule on hand? I’m trying to find a time during school to let the crew get together.”

“Oh, uh, yeah--just a second.” Steve jogged over to his backpack, passing over his schedule. “I’ve got study hall instead of PE, Mr. Killmonger would probably be happy to have me out of the library.”

“I’ll see what I can work out.” Mr. Coulson hummed for a moment, jotting something down on a sheet of paper attached to a clipboard. “Have you seen James Barnes around backstage? He’s the only other crew member I need to talk to.”

Steve shook his head slowly. “No, sorry. Maybe he thought he didn’t have to show up because he’s not cast?”

“I told him to be here. I’ll check around. Thanks, Steve.”

It was almost six by the time Mr. Coulson called an end to rehearsal for the evening. Steve followed Natasha and Clint out, his stomach growling loudly. He’d have to start packing snacks or something.

The two of them were talking a mile a minute about something music--he couldn’t follow, didn’t even try. It was only the first night, and already Steve was exhausted. And he still had homework to do… he groaned, tossing his backpack into the back seat of Natasha’s car and practically collapsing beside it.

“Hey, uh--Natasha--” That voice was familiar. Steve opened one eye, sitting up a little straighter as Bucky jogged over to them. “You mind dropping me off at my place? My ride bailed and no one’s at home right now.”

Clint snorted. “I dunno, James, we were gonna go do something fun, like go to Taco Bell. Sure you wanna risk being caught out and about with a bunch of Weirdos?”

“So drop me off and then go get your seven layer burrito. I wouldn’t be asking you if I had someone else.”

“Boys, boys, you’re both pretty.” Natasha nodded to the back seat. “Just kick Steve’s corpse to the side and hop in. Steve, you okay?”

“I heard Taco Bell and the rest got lost under my stomach growling.”

“Yes, don’t worry, we’ll feed you.”

He scooted over as Bucky got in, offered the other teen a tentative smile. “Hey, Bucky. Didn’t see you at rehearsal.”

“That’s because I got dragged back into the costume closet by Natasha. She seems to think that I have a radar for greaser clothes.”

Natasha laughed. “Well, you do dress like one.”

“I do _not_ ,” Bucky protested, crossing his arms.

Steve looked him up and down, considering. Leather jacket over a black t-shirt, blue jeans with ripped knees, and--well, they weren’t motorcycle boots, just black Converse, but it almost worked. “You kinda do, man.”

“I expected at least _you_ to back me up, punk.”

Putting as much innocence on his face as he could muster, Steve blinked. “Why would you ever expect that of me?”

Bucky punched his shoulder. Not hard, and he was grinning as he did it. “You’re an ass.”

“Ow!” Steve cried out immediately, rubbing his arm, overdramatic. “Natasha, he hit me!”

“Both of you behave or I will turn this car around.”

Clint cackled in the front seat, sitting back from adjusting the [stereo](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P43XYXqJJlU). “Listen to your mother, boys. See, Nat, this is an actually intelligible song by them!”

“You keep up the attitude, Clinton Francis Barton, and I won’t buy you a Chalupa.”

The fake fighting moved to the front seat, really closer to Clint groveling for forgiveness and a reinstatement of his fast food privileges. Steve settled back in his seat, glancing over at Bucky.

“I thought for sure you’d bail on the musical thing after you didn’t come to auditions.”

Bucky shrugged, pushing his hair back from his face. “Don’t go reading anything into it. I need some extra credit to boost my grades, and Mr. Schmidt in shop said that anyone who worked on the musical could change one low grade on a project to an A.”

Inexplicably, his heart sank. “Oh. Makes sense, I guess…” He glanced at the front seat, before pitching his voice lower. “I never said thanks. For… for the Christmas present.”

“Don’t mention it--seriously, don’t. It was just… just a dumb thing I put together. Half gave it to you to get rid of it.” He wasn’t looking at Steve when he spoke, though; Bucky’s eyes tracked to almost anywhere in the car but Steve’s face.

If he wasn’t bone-tired and starving, he’d be hurt. Steve shrugged, leaning against the side of the car and watching the evening traffic pass them by. It was so easy to talk to Bucky when they were alone, and even the silences felt natural. This was… He couldn’t put his finger on it, or maybe he could but didn’t want to. It was like a part of Bucky was closed off, a part that he let out only when he and Steve were alone. He remembered summer sunshine and smiles just as bright. Cold winter afternoons with red cheeks and laughter. They seemed so distant from the teen in the back seat with him, sitting as far away from him as possible with their backpacks like a barrier between them. Where was the Bucky that slung a casual arm over his shoulders while they walked to the crepe stand?

There was something more than just who they each hung out with at school. Something deeper going on. 

Or maybe Steve was just tired and hungry and overthinking it.

* * *

Four weeks in and Steve was daring to think that the musical might not actually be a complete disaster. Everyone was getting their lines memorized, their timing and blocking and emotion right. Costumes were coming along, setpieces were being assembled and painted. The crew seemed to have things together nicely, despite most of them rarely getting the chance to work together.

Also not working together, still, were their two leads. Mr. Coulson had spent hours working with Pepper and Tony separately, but every time he got them next to each other, it’d turn into an argument. Natasha shook her head and rolled her eyes, Clint ducked into the lighting booth and hid, Bruce moved Tony in one direction and Steve moved Pepper in the other. They’d get them calmed down, reconvene to try again, and Thor would end up having to step in and stop the fight from getting physical.

It was exhausting.

He very quietly preferred the times he got to go down to the auditorium or drama room and work as crew, usually during art class or study hall. The Ancient One didn’t mind him giving up one of his art classes for it, and Mr. Killmonger was more than happy to have an empty library.

Steve settled in during such a class, the sound of Natasha instructing Sam up on stage just carrying back to where he was painting. Sam was three weeks behind on learning the dance choreography, and they’d had to rewrite some of it to account for his limited knee mobility. Natasha was putting him through the ringer with training. Steve could sympathize; he barely had to dance, but her crash course had been brutal and mandatory.

The sound of the two of them, talking and laughing and dancing to the music, was good background as he painted. He hummed along with the musical soundtrack, whispering his own lyrics under his breath as they came up. His current landscape was the backdrop to the end of school carnival at the end of the movie, massive canvas sheets with carnival booths and rides sketched out on them, each section carefully numbered. He had the cheat sheet tacked up nearby, the colors corresponding to the numbers, and was currently working on number 37, light sky blue. It was a large area, easier to work on, drop, and come back to later than the fine detail work that the rest of the canvas required.

“You need a hand?” Someone asked and Steve looked up from the blue, blinking slowly. Bucky stood over him, hands stuffed in his pockets. “You got some paint on your face.”

“How did I--” He wiped a hand against his face, probably only smearing more paint on, if Bucky’s laughter was any indication. “Yeah, sure. Grab a brush and some light sky blue. Paint anywhere marked 37.”

They were on opposite sides of the massive canvas, working their way towards each other. Steve glanced up as he went to get more paint, biting his lip. “So, what’re you supposed to be working on?”

“I’m supposed to be welding together a T Bird down in auto shop, but Mr. Schmidt is out today and Hill will send me back to health class if I show up.”

“You’re ditching class?”

“It’s just health.” Bucky shrugged, freshening up his brush and going back to the canvas. “Not even a mandatory class to graduate, they just put people in it who they don’t want in a study hall.”

Silence fell again as they worked, comfortable quiet between them. Eventually, Steve sat up, brushing the back of his hand against his forehead. Class would be ending soon, he had to get his things and go off to English. Wash the paint off his face. Ms. Danvers wasn’t very keen on letting him ditch to work on the musical, considering he’d barely squeaked out a passing grade on the state exam for English. It wasn’t his fault that the curriculum he’d been using while homeschooling was so different from the one Georgia used.

They cleaned up and went for their things, the bell ringing to signal the end of class. Steve hesitated, reaching out and grabbing the sleeve of Bucky’s t-shirt. “Hey…”

“Hey what, punk?”

“I’m glad you’re here. Helping out. Doing this with us. It’s fun, yeah?”

Bucky laughed, shaking his head. “Fun. Sure. It’s real fun listening to all the shit the guys give me for doing a goddamn musical.”

 _So don’t listen to them. Don’t even hang out with them. They’re assholes._ Steve bit in the words, dropping his hand and nodding. “Just in it for the extra credit, I get it. Still, it’s good to hang out with you again. At school, even.”

Bucky shrugged, shifting his weight uncomfortably. “Yeah, you seem _real_ desperate for friends, Steve.” He glanced down, frowning. “Dammit, you got paint on my shirt.”

“Shit, sorry--”

“It’s fine. It’s whatever.” He shouldered his backpack, hurrying from the auditorium. Steve watched him go, swallowing down the words he wanted to call after him.

 _You seem desperate for_ real _friends, Bucky._


	9. April

The projection room above the auditorium had been adopted as their new hang out spot during lunch. Clint had a key, a fact that Mr. Coulson either didn’t know or didn’t care about (Steve hoped for the latter, but suspected the former) and he’d unlock the door and let the group of them in to sit around and eat in relative quiet. Usually only the six of them, though others drifted in and out on occasion. Wanda and Pietro, Rhodey, even Pepper began joining them somewhat steadily. It seemed that her fight with Tony was finally over, and the whole group breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Rehearsals finally became productive between their leads.

Steve bounded up the stairs as quickly as he could on Monday, glad to have somewhere quiet for lunch. Rains had closed the quad during the lunch hour and the students packed into the cafeteria were far too loud for him to focus on last minute studying for the quiz in English. Ms. Danvers was still pushing him about his grades. She probably wanted him to retake the state exam at the end of June. Like hell he would, he’d passed (barely) and that was enough. Probably. He’d see what his momma had to say about it.

Most everyone was already there when Steve got in, settling onto a chair and balancing his English text on one thigh and his lunch on the other. Tony and Pepper, sharing a lunch and a whispered conversation in one corner; Bruce and Natasha at the room’s small table, some complicated wiring spread out between them; Clint, perched precariously in the projector opening, his legs dangling over the empty seats of the auditorium below, a sandwich in one hand. No sign of Thor.

“Here he comes. Finally.” Clint grunted as he pushed himself back into the room, moving to the door and leaning out of it. “Thor, what the hell, man?”

Natasha stood up from her work with Bruce, gently pulling Clint back as the last of their group joined them. Her eyes were locked on Thor, however, mild accusation in them.

Steve gave up all pretense of studying in favor of the show in front of him. Bruce had turned away from the table, and even Pepper and Tony were far enough out of their own world to watch. He tried to catch up, to figure out what could have Clint and Natasha on the offensive so quickly.

The sci fi convention. That weekend, not in Atlanta so Clint needed a ride. Natasha hadn’t been available, but Thor had offered to go with him on Sunday.

“You ditched me, man! Left me standing on the sidewalk like the unpopular girl on prom night!” Clint shrugged Natasha off, stepping up and poking a finger into Thor’s chest. “You were just as excited for this nerd shit as I was, don’t even--Thor?” His words were combative, but his tone was still friendly. The last word, however, the question, had shifted entirely. Clint frowned, stepping back on his own and jerking his head into the room. “What happened?”

“My father knows. About the musical. He found out on Saturday night.” Thor sighed, stepping inside and clapping Clint on the shoulder. “Sorry, I should have called, but I--” He pushed his hand through his hair, groaning. “Things were a little crazy in my head.”

“How bad?” All pretense of anger had fled from Clint, one hand settling on Thor’s arm, leading him to sit down. “I mean, you know, however much you want to tell us.”

“No, nothing like that. He doesn’t…” Thor groaned, burying his face in his hands. “He thinks it’s a nice thing. Even nicer after I admitted that I mostly signed up to have a reason to spend more time with Jane, but--he still thinks it’s nice. Same as when Loki said he was going to try out. ‘That sounds like something you’ll have fun with,’ that’s what he said to Loki, and he asked me if I was having fun. And I _am_.”

“From the beginning for those of us that missed it?” Tony asked, rolling over in his chair and holding out a handful of red candy to Thor. “Also, Red Vine?”

Thor took the licorice with a smile and a headshake, starting to nibble on it. “Jane came over Saturday to study for astronomy, my mother invited her to stay for dinner. My father was out of town, due back around dinner time. We took a study break about half an hour before dinner and turned on the TV, and _Grease_ was on--” Steve nodded along with the story on reflex. He’d spent part of Saturday afternoon in the living room with his momma, watching the movie and laughing, saying his lines along with the actress on screen. “--so we were dancing and singing along to the big musical number at the end and he… got home. Came into the house and saw us and when he asked what we were doing, Jane just blurted out…” Thor shook his head. “No, she just _said_ that we were rehearsing outside of school. Like it was a completely normal sentence. And he said ‘that’s nice’ and went to greet my mother. And at dinner he asked about the musical, and why I hadn’t told him, and--it was all fine. Which took a while for me to wrap my head around. I’m still not really sure that that… happened.” Thor looked up at Clint, offering a tentative smile. “Sorry, again, about ditching you on Sunday.”

“Eh, there’ll be other conventions. I just wanted to go look at some nerd shit.”

“So did I, but after that it just…” Thor sighed heavily. “I barely even remember Sunday. Didn’t finish my math homework. Vision is going to have my head on a plate.”

“Thor, Thor, step into my office.” Tony beamed, rolling his chair closer. "Between the two of us, we can probably crack through it in half an hour, tops. I'll do half, you do half, and then you can copy my half."

"Tony," Pepper warned, crossing her arms.

"Come on, Pep, at least half of the problems are duplicates. As long as he does half of it, he'll learn the material."

Thor shook his head. “Thanks for the offer, Tony, but I’ll risk the wrath of Vision rather than copy. Maybe he’ll go easy on me if I show up early and say I didn’t really understand it.”

“He won’t, but best of luck.”

Steve snorted, reopening his English book. “ _So_ glad I got my math homework done Friday. Ms. Danvers breathing down my neck about English is enough.”

“You should get James to help you,” Pepper offered, giving him a smile from across the small room. “He’s in honors English this year.”

“And no one can prove it,” Natasha added in, sitting down at the table with Bruce once more, “but we’re pretty sure that last year he wrote a poem that won a school wide contest. The grand prize was two hundred dollars, and the poem was submitted anonymously, but no one ever stepped up to claim it. Ms. Danvers got an anonymous letter asking for the prize money to be donated to the local humane society.”

“And no one can prove it was Bucky?” Steve raised an eyebrow. “Not even you?”

“No one can _prove_ it. Doesn’t mean people don’t know.”

Clint snorted from where he’d resumed his perch, legs thankfully _inside_ the room this time. “Yeah, except Eddie Brock wrote up a whole ass article about how it was actually written by a teacher because they didn’t want to have to give a student the money and wanted a tax write off instead, and everyone believed _that_ rather than that one of the shop assholes is actually a soft poetry boy.” He looked up, contemplative. “Hill ripped into him for an hour about it and almost closed down the school paper.”

“Pretty sure that only Sharon’s promise to keep him in check from then on saved it. The paper’s a subdivision of the student council, and she was secretary and a junior editor last year. Add in her aunt’s history with Fury and, well, her word was good enough.” Pepper shrugged, waving a hand. “Anyways, you’re trying to study. And I should be, too.”

Did Mr. Coulson know they were up there? Probably not. Did he care? Maybe not. But until he found them and kicked them out, they intended to keep using the projection room above the auditorium as their personal lunch room.

* * *

“Cut!” Mr. Coulson called out and everyone on stage staggered to a stop, letting out groans instead. Even some of the crew was grumbling with displeasure. “From the top, everyone, scene seven and _please_ remember your blocking! Steve, Pietro, you two should be closer together.”

They shuffled around, flipping script pages back. Sat down near the front of the stage, Bruce picked up his own script. During the actual show he’d be up in the projection room with Clint, using the sound effects speaker to amplify his voice and sound like he was on the radio, but for rehearsals, sitting on the stage was just fine.

They worked through scene seven twice more, the clock ticking closer and closer to six. Closer and closer to the end of the day, the end of the week, and beyond it--the weekend and spring break. Everyone was eager to wrap up and go home, start enjoying their breaks.

“Cut!” The groans this time were more dramatic, accompanied by several people petulantly dropping to sit down where they had been standing, a silent mutiny Steve was willing to bet Tony somehow led. “That’s a wrap for today, everyone.” The end of Mr. Coulson’s sentence was almost lost under cheering, and his voice rose over the sound. “Don’t leave yet!”

Wary murmuring passed among the students and Steve followed it, heard the whispers of ‘now what?’ and ‘oh no’ and ‘he doesn’t want--’ ‘he can’t make us--’ and felt dread plummet into his stomach.

“I understand that next week is spring break, but if we want this musical to pull off, I’m going to have to ask that anyone staying in town come in to rehearse. I put an ear to the ground--”

“ _Romanoff_ ,” someone whispered venomously.

“--and I know that the majority of you are available. The school will be providing transportation if you need it as well as a free lunch, just come see me before you leave to sign up for the bus. Okay, that’s all, enjoy your weekend and I’ll see you all Monday morning!”

“ _Morning_?!” Clint shouted from the projection room, opening the door and making his way down the auditorium aisle to join the group on stage. “Mr. Coulson, it’s _spring break_!”

“And you can nap up there. I know you do, Clint.”

“Can we at least have coffee made or something?”

Mr. Coulson shook his head. “School policy, no caffeinated beverages for students are made available on campus. If you want coffee, you’ll have to wake up even earlier and pick it up before you come in.”

Thor reached out a hand, hauling Clint up onto the stage and wrapping an arm around his shoulder as Mr. Coulson turned to talk to some other students. He snagged Steve with the other arm, pulling them both in close. “Tony won’t stand for this. His place tonight, as many of us as we can gather. Tell the others.”

“Is he staging a mutiny? I want an eyepatch.” Clint glanced at Steve, shrugging and peeling off. He headed for Wanda and Pietro, calling after them with a wave as they lifted their bags. “Hey, guys!”

Steve turned the other way, saw Sam and Scott nearby. He sidled up to them, pitching his voice low. “Tony’s place tonight if you can make it. Somethin’ planning.”

“What kinda something?” Scott asked, looking up excitedly. “Like a mutiny or--”

“Clint already claimed the eyepatch, don’t get too excited.” Steve shook his head, looking past them as more members of the crew filtered by. Most of them got picked up by one of his fellow Weirdos quickly, the message undoubtedly being spread, but--

“Hey, Bu--James! C’mere!” Steve called, waving him over. He saw the smile, even if it was quickly traded for a frown and exaggerated eye roll. That didn’t stop Bucky from walking over to him.

“What, Steve?”

“We’re meeting at Tony’s tonight. As many of us as possible. Can you make it?”

“Do I have a choice? Natasha’s my ride home unless Brock--” He stopped, sucked in a breath and went still. “I gotta go. Call me with whatever you’re plotting tonight. After ten.” Bucky’s face was blank as he walked away, his shoulders pulling in.

Steve turned to watch him go, frowning as he joined Brock at the doors of the auditorium. Across the room, their eyes met for a moment, before the other teen laughed. Steve saw Bucky’s shoulders bump up and down once, impossible to know if he was shrugging or laughing as well, not without seeing his face. Warmth flushed through him, but he held onto what Bucky had said--call him after ten and tell him whatever was going on.

They left and he turned back to Sam and Scott, raising an eyebrow. “Well, that does mean Scott doesn’t have to ride in the trunk.”

“You sure Natasha’s okay with you volunteering her chauffeur services?” Sam asked, pulling his backpack onto his shoulder and heading for the exit.

“Would you rather ride with Tony and his gang of children?”

“Point taken.”

As if summoned by their words, Natasha fell into step with them, Clint beside her. “I’m going to need a minivan pretty soon. Do the twins have a ride?”

“Bruce borrowed his mom’s minivan because she’s out of town at a conference, so he can fit seven. Tony can fit another six, more if someone rides up front with Jarvis. Thor shouldn’t fit four but he will, and you’ve got five,” Clint counted off on his fingers, looking around. “That’s more than enough for everyone to be there, I think, though we might have to kick someone out of your car and into Bruce’s if James is coming.”

“He’s not.” Steve shook his head, waving to the doors Bucky and Brock had left through. “Brock Rumlow picked him up. I’ll call him tonight with whatever plot we hatch.”

Tony stepped up on his other side, Pepper beside him and a group of freshmen following them like ducklings. “Hey, hey, don’t call it a plot. Call it a scheme. A machination. Maybe even a conspiracy.”

“I call it a headache waiting to happen,” Steve muttered, elbowing him lightly. “You’re having too much fun with it, so it’s going to be a mess.”

“[Shun](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CsGYh8AacgY) the nonbeliever!” Tony called, pointing dramatically. “Shun!”

“Shhhhuuuuuunnnnnnnuh!” Peter called from behind him, laughing. Ned joined in, though Michelle--MJ, she said to call her--only rolled her eyes with a smile.

They split up at the cars, everyone piling into different vehicles. On a normal day, Thor would divert to take Loki home first, but on this Friday, they all made their way to Tony’s at the same time. Eighteen people--Rhodey had jumped into Tony’s car just before they left--was a lot, even for Tony’s place, so rather than staying inside they all made their way out into the garden, settled onto patio furniture or the soft grass as puffy white clouds skated by overhead. Spring break may have been coming up, but Atlanta was already feeling the heat of summer. The accompanying humidity would be along soon enough.

“Okay, okay!” Tony called, standing up on a deck chair and shouting over the low rumble of conversation. “So we all agree that this is bullshit, right? Like, I like Mr. Coulson just as much as anyone else, but it’s _spring break_.”

“And for the record,” Natasha called, raising her glass of iced tea, “ _I_ didn’t tell him that no one had plans for the week. Hell, I _had_ plans. They involved sleeping in.”

“Thank you, Natasha, and you’re right. We all had plans of some sort, something outside of going to school at ass o’clock every morning.” Tony looked around the group of them, clearly relishing being the center of everyone’s attention. “So we have to do something about this.”

“We do need the practice, though,” Wanda pointed out, shrugging out of her jacket. Natasha’s jacket, Steve realized, barely holding in his grin. “We won’t be ready for the show at this rate. None of us.”

“We compromise.” Pepper looked around the group, reaching up and gently tugging Tony to sit back down. “Spring break technically starts right now and ends when school starts next Monday. So that’s nine days. I say we make him a deal, he can have half of those. We can bring this proposal to him tomorrow, and tell him--either the first five, starting immediately, or the last five. We do musical practice Saturday through Wednesday, or Wednesday through Sunday. But we all get at least some time to enjoy our break.”

“And if he doesn’t take it, we mutiny!” Tony added, crossing his arms.

Steve snorted. “I don’t think a mutiny is going to get us very far. I like Pepper’s plan, maybe a couple of us should meet with Mr. Coulson tomorrow morning and talk to him about it?”

“Okay, so who do we send as representatives?” Bruce asked.

Natasha had her notebook out, was flipping through it quickly. “It should be people that can be reasonable. Can present our arguments well and make him understand that our side is more than just ‘we’re teenagers and want to sleep in.’ Even if that’s our most vocal complaint.” She paused, looking among the group before pointing. “Pepper. Sam. And Clint. That’s who should go.”

Tony opened his mouth to protest, but Rhodey’s hand clapped onto his shoulder before he could speak. “I realize this doesn’t involve me, but why those three?”

“It was Pepper’s idea to split the break, and she’s already sweetened the deal by giving him the better half of the split _and_ choice over which days. Clint’s a good representative from the crew side and Mr. Coulson likes him--shut up, Clint, he does, why do you think he let you in drama class?” Clint’s mouth snapped shut on his own protests. “And Sam was on the debate team in middle school.”

“How the _hell_ do you know that?”

“I have my ways. Can the three of you meet up with Mr. Coulson tomorrow morning?”

Pepper and Sam nodded, and Clint threw his arms up. “As long as we stop for coffee first.”

“Everyone else should be ready to get to the school. Clint will call me with the update and I’ll make sure we all know what’s going on. Obviously, we can all get there without school busses, so just tell me if you need a ride or something.” She glanced over to Steve, raising an eyebrow. “You think James will be into this?”

“Hopefully.”

“So…” Scott looked up, watching the group. “What’re we gonna do with our four days off?”

“Sleep!” Clint called immediately.

Tony’s face lit up, his eyes widening. “Wait. I have a better idea. Let me make some arrangements, but I think we all suddenly _do_ plan to be out of town for at least some of spring break.”

* * *

If there ever came a point in his life where Steve Rogers needed to do the impossible, he was going to make his first priority in getting it done be _call Tony Stark_.

It should have been impossible to arrange for nineteen people to all trek out to a secluded lake house for a weekend, especially when the oldest among them was 18 and they were all still in high school. Nevermind the logistics of getting everyone _out_ there with four cars among them, how Tony had convinced everyone’s parents that this was okay was a borderline miracle.

He suspected that leaving out the part where Jarvis was dropping them off and going back home might have had something to do with it.

There was another lesson in there, another thing he’d dared to think he’d learned, only to be proven wrong again:

_Never underestimate Tony Stark._

Tony had said _lake house_ and Steve had pictured something… quaint. A cabin with an open floor plan and a loft for a bedroom. Everyone spreading out on air mattresses and maybe a pull out sofa or two, all in one large room. Good natured teasing about who was going to have to go to the outhouse in the middle of the night.

He did not picture the log mansion that Natasha pulled up in front of.

“Holy shit,” Bucky said, crammed into the middle seat between him and Sam. “Holy _shit_.”

Natasha glanced at the three slack-jawed boys in her back seat. “You _do_ realize that this is Tony’s place, right? Of course it’s absurd.”

“It’s three stories tall,” Sam whispered, craning his neck back and looking up. “What the hell?”

“Actually it’s more like four, but the loft follows the roof line and all the skylights are on the other side.” Natasha’s eyes darted to Clint as he elbowed her. “What?”

“You’re ruining the moment.”

She huffed, pushing his shoulder and popping the trunk. “Come on, get your bags everyone. Tony’s going to want to give us the grand tour and give out room assignments.”

Tony did indeed want to give the grand tour, walking them through the first floor of the house. “Holy shit,” Bucky kept whispering beside Steve, his eyes wide as he looked around. He wasn’t the only one impressed, either; most of the rest of the group was in a state of mild to severe awe. Steve could agree with the sentiment, he was still trying to wrap his head around ‘lake house’ as something more elaborate than a single-room cabin in the woods.

“This kitchen is bigger than the first floor of my house,” Bucky said at one point, looking around the massive kitchen. “What the fuck.”

“I think it’s bigger than my entire _apartment_ ,” Scott mumbled beside them, shaking his head. “I’m Scott, by the way. Nice to meet you.”

“Bucky.” They shook hands and Steve bit in a smile. He was pretty sure the other teen hadn’t even noticed.

Besides the massive kitchen, there was a dining room, three living rooms (“One’s technically a sitting room and one’s a lounge, whatever that means,” Tony added as they walked through them), two full bathrooms, and a study on the main floor. There was a flight of stairs down to a rec room, with more seating and pool, foosball, a TV, wide open space to hang out, a laundry room tucked off to one side. Off of all three living rooms was a massive deck with more seating, a fire pit, an outdoor kitchen with a grill, a hot tub that could fit at least nine people by Steve’s quick count, and the lake itself, beautiful and still in the afternoon light.

Upstairs were bedrooms and more bedrooms, four on the second floor and two on the third, each with its own bathroom attached plus another half-bath in the hall on each floor. And finally there was the loft, another recreation space with a gently sloping ceiling contrasted with dark beams.

“We can sleep a couple of people up here if we need to, but the sunrise is going to wake you up stupid-early,” Tony added, gesturing to the massive wall of windows that was the entire lake side of the house. The loft was open to the main space of the cabin, giving everyone a stunning, if dizzying, view of where they were spending the weekend.

Tony clapped his hands. “Right. Room assignments. Let’s see…” He looked among the group, before beginning to point and speak. “Nat and Clint with Wanda and Pietro, second floor room one. Steve, Sam, Scott, and James second floor room two…”

Steve raised an eyebrow, tromping back down with everyone else once assignments were given out.

“This is like goddamn summer camp,” Sam griped, hefting his backpack and looking at his roommates.

Bucky snorted. “Cabin assignments. Next Tony’ll have us making matching beaded necklaces and coming up with a name for ourselves.”

“Do _not_ tempt him,” Clint hissed, grabbing his own backpack from the pile. “Natasha will force me to participate.”

The bedroom itself was massive, though Steve noticed a problem right away. Tony had only shown them one of the bedrooms (room four, he guessed, where Peter, Ned, and MJ were bunking up) and it had had enough sleeping for three, with bunk beds and a double bed. He sort of assumed that the rooms assigned to four people would have two sets of bunk beds, not what he walked into.

“Dibs on top bunk!” Scott called immediately, chucking his backpack up there and scrambling up after it.

Sam glanced at Steve over his shoulder, one step ahead of him and Bucky, and dove for the bottom bunk. “Dibs!”

The bed that was left was at least a queen, maybe a king, but it was also only one bed. Steve looked over to Bucky, seeing the same realization on his face. “I can ask Tony about one of us sleeping somewhere else,” he offered immediately.

“What, like the loft so we get woken up at the ass crack of dawn? Only if one of you assholes snores.” Bucky shook his head, elbowing him lightly, a bare hint of a smile tugging at his mouth. “Just don’t hog the blankets or stick your cold feet on my legs in the middle of the night or something.”

He hadn’t realized how tense he’d been until he relaxed, exhaling slowly. Steve tossed his backpack onto the bed, sitting down and bouncing a little on the plush mattress. “I’ve never been to summer camp, you know.”

Bucky snickered, chucking a pillow at him. “Lucky you. It’s super lame. Go out in the woods for a week during the summer and get bit to shit by mosquitos. Hear rumors that there’s snakes in the lake or--”

“Or serial killers in the woods,” Sam added, laughing. 

“Campfire songs that get stuck in your head forever,” Bucky groaned.

With a devious grin, Sam started to whistle between his teeth.

“Don’t you dare--”

“This is our campfire song--”

“I will _kill_ you--”

“We sing it all campfire long!”

“I swear to _god_ , Sam, you are _dead_.”

Someone knocked on their door before any violence could happen, Clint sticking his head into the room. “Hey, come downstairs, Bruce is cooking lunch.”

“Bruce is cooking?” Scott leapt off the bunk, nearly bolting out the door. “I’ll give him a hand!”

Clint raised an eyebrow, shrugging. “Whenever you wanna come downstairs.”

Sam followed him out, leaving Steve and Bucky alone. After a moment, Steve flopped back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. “You’re okay with all this, Bucky? I mean…” He gestured to the room, the cabin in general. “ _All_ this?”

“As long as Sam doesn’t keep singing campfire songs. That fuckin’ thing is going to be in my head for the rest of my _life_.” He was smiling, though, flopped down on the opposite side of the bed and laid back so his head was next to Steve’s. “Yes, I’m fine with all of this. Your weird friends aren’t all bad.”

Steve turned his head, watching Bucky’s face. He looked… _peaceful_. Eyes closed, smile still twisting his mouth. “Hey. I’m glad you came.”

Bucky stayed quiet, breathing deeply. Finally, he sat up, grabbing the pillow he’d thrown earlier and wrapping his arms around it. “Me too.” He smacked the pillow down onto Steve’s chest, pushing himself off the bed. “Now c’mon, I’m fucking starving. Let’s go see what’s for lunch.”

* * *

Steve brought his sketchbook out onto the deck after lunch, settled into a chair under a canvas umbrella as everyone scattered to various parts of the house. A group trekked down to the strip of sand at the edge of the lake, others went into the woods, more lounged around on the deck or in the house. He looked across the still waters of the lake, almost unseeing, his fingers twitching with his pencil hovering just over the paper. After a minute, Steve looked down, began to draw.

He was aware, vaguely, of the others at the lake house, running past, jumping into the water off the dock, lounging on chairs or in the hot tub, but none of it held his attention as much as his sketchbook. At least, not until he felt a presence over his shoulder, the smell of sweet vanilla and a flash of red hair in his peripheral as Natasha leaned in to look at his sketch.

“Nice,” she said as he angled the paper more towards her, as he pulled himself out of his own head and looked at it. A landscape, not his usual, the lake as he imagined it in a winter Georgia rarely saw, still and white with snow, a single set of ski tracks across the middle. “Your art’s really good. Are you going to art school?”

“Maybe. I applied for the art program at Georgia State, but I haven’t heard back yet. Got in for biology at Emory, though, so my momma’s pretty happy for me.” He smiled, remembered the excitement when he’d logged on to his email and seen the acceptance packet in his inbox. He’d run screaming down to Sarah's office, too thrilled to even articulate what all the yelling was about, only able to drag her back into his room and show her the email.

“What about NYU?”

Of course Natasha knew about that. He couldn’t even feign surprise. “I applied, but it’s super competitive, so I’m not holding my breath. Pipe dreams, you know?” He closed the sketchbook, setting it on the table and looking over at her. “What about you?”

There had been a smile on her face, but it faded for an instant before coming back, stronger and certainly fake. “I got into Juilliard for ballet.”

“That’s--”

“Exactly where my mother wants me. She always wanted to be a professional dancer and I’m going to live her dream for her. Won’t surprise me if she’s doing my admission packet while I’m here.” She looked down to her hands, picking under her nails. “Her dreams, not mine.”

“Natasha…”

“Do you know what I want to do with my life, Steve?” Her eyes flashed back to him, fierce. “What my dreams are? Where I want to be when I’m twenty, or thirty, or forty?”

“You want to go to Europe,” he answered immediately, holding up his hands. “You told me that once. Russia, specifically, if I recall.”

“I want to go _everywhere_. Never settle down. Never make the mistake my mom did and have a kid so young I put my goals on hold forever. But really… I just wanna be somewhere I can be happy.”

“You said you took a break from dancing to focus on school, but that wasn’t it, huh?” Steve raised an eyebrow, reaching over and touching her hand. “You turned 18 and your mom couldn’t make you keep going to classes, right?”

Her hand turned in his, squeezing for a moment. “Smart boy.”

“Observant, that’s all. You don’t have to go to Juilliard just because you got in, right? Did you apply to other places?”

“I secretly put in an application for the linguistics program at Duke. Got accepted, too. I just don’t know if I want to leave Clint.”

He could understand that. It took someone truly oblivious to miss the way Natasha and Clint were practically joined at the hip. He’d called them soul mates for a reason. Even if there was nothing romantic there, they seemed to complete each other. “What’s he doing after high school?”

“Marrying rich, if you ask him. But he’s always been interested in planes… Wants to be a pilot, but flight training is expensive unless you go the military route. He’s been… talking to recruiters. His dad found out and just about hit the roof, so now he’s not as sure.”

They both fell quiet, watching as Tony and Rhodey fought the breeze to get a fire going in the fire pit. Finally, Steve pushed himself up, reaching out and hauling Natasha to her feet as well. “I don’t think we’re supposed to have it all figured out yet, anyways. People just tell us we should.”

She smiled, soft and genuine, leaned up slightly and--

Someone shouted, loud and close, a sound that made him jump and turn. Natasha’s mouth, warm and soft and just slightly open in surprise, pressed to his. They both froze for a moment, before pulling away from each other like they were burned. Beside the deck, Peter let out another shout as Pietro chased him with a water gun.

Natasha let go of him and brushed her hands off on her shorts like nothing had happened, looking across the deck. “Well, I know one thing we have figured out. Tony’s going to burn the entire house down if he doesn’t get some help. C’mon.” She turned away quickly, crossed the deck to the fire pit. Steve’s face flamed, probably hot enough to start the fire himself, where she’d pressed her soft lips to his still tingling.

Did that count as his first kiss? That wasn’t his first kiss.

That might have been his first kiss.

* * *

The beach, if the narrow strip of sand between the grass and the lake even counted, was perhaps the only thing about the cabin that was even slightly underwhelming. It was, however, clear from trees for at least a hundred feet in every direction, a good distance from the house, and capable of seating everyone, spread out on pilfered deck chairs, canvas camp chairs, cooler tops, and the tailgate of Thor’s pick up truck. They crowded around the pile of driftwood on Saturday night, [music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QkF3oxziUI4) coming from the truck’s speakers

“Hey, isn’t this that song that has a satanic message if you play it backwards?” Peter asked, tilting his head towards the truck.

Tony rolled his eyes, but before he could say anything, Bucky spoke up from near the truck. “Yeah, absolutely it is.”

“Cool!”

Rather than argue it, Tony stood up and held a torch, almost ceremoniously lighting the bonfire. “Here’s to an actual break during spring break!” He announced, taking a seat on a chair as the flames started to build. “And no parental supervision!”

There was no question what that meant; Steve remembered Halloween. Sure enough, it didn’t take long for coolers to open, for pilfered liquor bottles to appear. He leaned over to Natasha on his left, shaking his head. “I didn’t realize we were supposed to bring alcohol.”

“You don’t have to drink if you don’t want to. It’s a choice, no one’s going to force it down your throat.”

Steve shrugged, leaning back and digging in the cooler behind her, picking out a soda can. “What’s good with ginger ale?” The punch at Thor’s had tasted like mouthwash, but he was willing to try again. He’d just be careful.

Natasha looked thoughtful for a moment, before pouring something from a bottle into a cup for him, passing it over. The cup was less than a quarter full and he raised an eyebrow. “Pour your soda in there and try it. Can always add more if you like it.”

Steve did as instructed, taking a sip and making a face. “I think I just ruined a perfectly good soda. Why is my tongue tingling?”

He heard laughter from his other side, looked up as Bucky took a seat next to him. “Are you corrupting the home school kid, Natasha?” He had a silvery can in one hand--definitely not diet cola--and took a drink from it. “Thor brought beer, you know.”

“I think I’ll stick to tingly soda.” Steve took another drink, licking his lips. “You know what’s wild? I’ve had alcohol before. Like, wine is basically part of dinner in a lot of Europe at a certain age. But that’s never made my mouth tingle.”

“Hard liquor’ll do that to ya.”

Conversations moved around the fire, people exchanging seats to talk to each other. Clint joined them at some point, settled himself practically on Natasha’s lap and took a drink out of the bottle in his hands. _Everclear_ printed on the side caught the firelight and Bucky almost choked on his beer.

“You’re drinking straight Everclear? Isn’t that shit basically rubbing alcohol?”

Clint shrugged, taking a nonchalant sip. “It was all I could pilfer from the house. It’s not bad, once you get past the burning.” He considered for a moment, watching them. “Hurts worse if you get it in your eye.”

Natasha poked his sides and Clint jolted, wriggling until he fell off her lap to the sand. “Tell the truth, tough guy,” she warned, planting a foot on his back.

“Yeah, okay, okay. It’s just water in a bottle I cleaned out. But I _did_ pilfer it from our recycle bin when I took the trash out.” He grabbed her ankle, planting her foot on the ground and leaning back onto her shins. “I don’t like to drink, s’all.”

Steve nodded, bits and pieces of conversation floating through his head. He took another drink from his cup, deciding that the taste wasn’t _that_ bad, really. And the tingling was neat. “You’re gonna fake it, though, huh?”

“Fake it ‘til I make it. No one makes the super drunk guy do anything for them.” Clint winked, taking another drink. “Also, I’m betting I can get one of our freshmen to copycat and drink _actual_ Everclear straight from the bottle. I know there’s at least one real bottle of it floating around here.”

“You’re a monster, Clint.” Bucky shook his head.

“Oh, you know it.”

The low murmur of voices around the fire was cut off as Scott spoke up, climbing unsteadily on top of his chair to be heard. “We should do, like, never have I ever or something,” he declared, looking around the group. “It’ll be fun!”

“Sounds real fun, Lang, now get down from there before you break your neck. No hospital trips,” Tony said.

Bruce and Thor helped him down, everyone finding seats in a rough circle around the fire. There were a lot of them and it was difficult, almost impossible, to see who was on the exact opposite side of the flames from him, but Steve was pretty sure everyone was out here. Even Loki seemed interested in joining them, scooting his chair a little closer to the fire and pouring a soda and something from a large bottle into a cup.

“So who starts?” Pepper asked, swirling her drink.

“Well, it’s Scott’s idea and Tony’s lake house, so one of them,” Rhodey suggested.

Tony stood up, holding his drink aloft. “I hope you’re ready to get real depraved, real fast, because never have _I_ ever gone down on someone in a public place.”

There was a pause, a moment of hesitation, before a few people took swallows from their drinks.

“You’ve just been on the receiving end, Tony,” Clint said from his place still at Natasha’s feet, wiping his mouth and putting his bottle aside. He stood up, cracking his spine. “Never have I ever…” a look around the fire, sharp and assessing “...traded underwear with someone for an entire day.”

Somewhere across the fire, Pietro let out a choking cough. “Ugh, Wanda, I can’t know that!”

“Get over it.” Wanda stood up as Clint sat down, holding her drink aloft. “Never have I ever hooked up with someone under the bleachers _during_ a football game.”

“Liar!” Thor shouted immediately, pointing at her. “I know for a fact that you and V--”

“That was _after_!” Wanda shot back, tucking her skirt under her and sitting down. “I said _during_ , not _after_.”

“Fair point, then.” He took a drink, then a second one, before standing up. “Never have I ever made out in one of the practice closets in the band hall.”

“Cheap shot, Thor,” Sam grumbled, taking a drink along with nearly everyone else in the circle.

There was a moment of stillness as Thor sat down, before Bucky stood up. “We’ve got an innocent among us, everyone. Steve hasn’t had a sip since we started. So, never have I ever…” He looked to Steve, his grin devilish. “Spent the night on a boat.”

“Bucky you asshole.” Steve took a drink, along with one or two others.

It devolved from there, mostly into ‘let’s get Steve drunk’ with the occasional sexual shenanigans thrown in to spare him. His drink had emptied at some point and refilled almost by magic, much more tingly now. His lips and tongue were both going sort of numb.

Steve leaned his head onto Bucky’s shoulder, closing his eyes and just listening as Peter declared that never had he ever gotten detention.

“Oh, hey, I’m empty,” he added as he sat down, and Steve opened his eyes. He watched across the fire as Peter looked among the bottles around him, feeling almost everyone hold their breath.

He picked up a bottle of Everclear and Clint jumped to his feet, staggering and almost falling into the fire before Natasha caught him. “Never have I ever finished an assignment early!” he rushed out.

“Wow, lame one, Clint. Maybe you sh--Peter _don’t_ \--”

Tony’s warning came too late. Peter shrugged and put the bottle of Everclear to his lips, taking a large swallow just as he’d seen Clint doing. He choked, nearly spit the mouthful back into the fire, and started coughing and hacking as Clint cackled.

“What’s wrong, kiddo?”

“All the moisture just got sucked out of my mouth. Ow.” Peter wheezed in a breath as everyone laughed, as Ned slapped him on the back a couple of times. “How do you _do_ that?”

“Practice.” Clint flopped back to the sand, lying down and stretching out. “Someone else’s go.”

Natasha hummed, standing up a little unsteadily, her focus zeroing in on Wanda not too far away. “Never have I ever stolen an upperclassman’s jacket at a party.”

Wanda raised her eyebrows, sitting forward and keeping her cup down. “Very specific, Natasha.”

“You know goddamn well you should be drinking right now--”

“Should I?” She sat back again, the movement of Pietro’s lowering cup just visible behind her shoulder.

They went a few more rounds, but outside of the truly depraved things that some of them were still able to come up with but no one else would drink to, the game seemed to be over. Probably for the better, anyways, the fire was dying down and most everyone was beyond tipsy. They trekked into the house as the late hours of the night became the early hours of the morning, heading to their various rooms and dropping into bed.

Steve rolled over, blinked blearily to see Bucky staring at him from the other side of the large bed, the light still spilling out from the bathroom where Scott was brushing his teeth after ‘pre-curing his hangover,’ as he called it. “Hey,” he whispered, reaching over and half-heartedly poking Bucky in the face. “Never have I ever…” He yawned, squirmed further under the blanket. “Ever written ‘nonymous poetry and gotten an award for it.”

Bucky smiled, shook his head and swatted Steve’s hand back to his side of the bed. “Go to sleep, game’s over. But if you wanna pretend I’m drinking to that one, fine.”

He rolled back over, closed his eyes as the bathroom light clicked off. Morning would be there soon, but the odds of anyone waking up during the AM hours seemed slim. Tomorrow was Sunday, they’d have to pack up and head back to town. Spring break was practically over, but it had been good.

* * *

Four days at the lake house, spent swimming and partying and hanging out, generally just _relaxing_ , was somehow just enough. Steve got home Sunday evening, kissed his momma hello, told her he had a great time, and went to sleep in his own bed. He didn’t mention the collective hangovers everyone had.

They were still three weeks out from opening night, and those three weeks promised to be grueling. Mr. Coulson kept them as late as he could every night, the rule about not being allowed to stay past 6 abandoned in favor of getting every line, every step, and every note perfect.

Spring break seemed to have refreshed everyone, and despite the long hours and increasing demand for perfection, they were definitely all still having fun. Steve found himself humming notes from his songs during class, reciting his lines under his breath as he put the finishing touches on sets. He danced with Pietro, the Roger to his Jan, and they actually found an almost natural rhythm with each other. Script adjustments had been minor, Mr. Coulson just threw his hands up and declared that it was _Grease: The Everyone Is Kinda Bi Edition_ rather than trying to rewrite their minor relationship as something else. Most of the cast and crew had laughed uproariously at that and no one had protested.

He was feeling pretty good about it, all things considered. His schoolwork wasn’t slipping, thanks to weekend study groups at Tony’s, and…

And there was Bucky, who seemed to be much more integrated with the group. He still hung out with his asshole friends during the school day, still snuck off behind the bleachers at lunch (though he’d admitted to Steve that he’d dropped the smoking, had never liked it anyways), but once the final bell rang and they were in the auditorium, it was like having the old Bucky back. The Bucky from summer, who he’d seen glimpses of during winter formal and in Aspen. Who he felt had finally come to the surface around the others during those four days at the lake house.

Of course something had to blow up about it, because Steve’s life was a terrible John Hughes movie and he’d dared to forget that for two seconds. Or maybe it was more like that one about catty high school girls that Clint was always quoting.

A hand slammed his locker shut just before lunch and Steve followed it up the arm to its owner, stared blankly for a moment at Brock Rumlow. Finally, he sighed. “What is your problem, Brock.”

“ _You’re_ my fuckin’ problem. Who the fuck do you think you are, huh?” Brock took a step closer, put himself right in Steve’s face. His breath smelled like cigarettes and mint gum and Steve scrunched his nose. “You think you get to just step in here and turn James against me? You know how goddamn lost he was before I came along?”

“You sound like a jealous ex-boyfriend.”

That was the wrong thing to say. Blank fury crossed over Brock’s face, before he grabbed the front of Steve’s shirt and slammed him into the row of lockers with a _bang_. There was a crowd gathering around them. “Fight!” Someone shouted, the call being picked up by others, the chant closing them in.

Brock held his shirt with one hand and drew his other arm back, fist closed. The world seemed to be going in slow motion as Steve watched the fist fly at his face, what felt like several seconds between the impact and the burst of pain around his left eye.

His hands finally responded to his brain’s screams for them to move and he reached up, blocked the second hit with his palm. He shoved, tried to get off the lockers, tried to get Brock off him. One knee rose jerkily, instinct, and slammed into the other teen’s hip bone.

Brock stumbled back and Steve shoved himself off the lockers, followed him. This wasn’t going to end unless he ended it, a part of him reasoned. It was going to come to blows and if he wanted the last two months of high school to be anywhere close to tolerable, he was going to have to put up a decent fight.

He got Brock to the ground on his back, somehow, knelt over him and drew his fist back to take a swing at the other teen. Brock’s fist slammed into his stomach and Steve coughed, wheezed in a breath. Natasha had taught him some basics of punching, and while the hit to his stomach had thrown his aim off, he kept the same amount of force behind it. Steve slammed his fist across Brock’s jaw, felt his knuckles split open from the impact with the teen’s teeth.

That was about the time he realized that the only sound now was his and Brock’s labored breathing. The crowd around them had gone silent, until one voice broke through.

“Rumlow, Rogers! Fury’s office, right now!” A petite woman with dark hair stepped up to them, hauling Steve off of Brock by the back of his shirt. She got him upright and although she barely reached his shoulder, her glare had him shrinking. The woman turned, hauling Brock to his feet as well. “I’ll send Nurse Strange after you.”

“I ain’t gonna fuckin’--” Brock began, his mouth snapping shut at the look she gave him.

“Save it for Fury. Both of you, with me. Everyone else, scoot. Show’s over, kids!”

And that was how Steve met Vice Principal Maria Hill.

She marched them to the waiting area outside of Principal Fury’s office, Brock on her left and Steve on her right, sat them down on a bench with a look that said _sit down, shut up, and stay put_ better than any words, then knocked once on the frosted glass office door and let herself in.

There was a secretary at a desk, an older man who took one look at them--Brock had blood dripping from the corner of his mouth and Steve could feel his eye trying to swell shut--and dialed the phone. Another student was in the waiting area, back to them, looking at the photographs on the wall. Old aerial pictures of the school from when it had been built, from before the new gymnasium had been added.

The student spun around, grinning widely and crossing to the bench, sitting between them. “Fight?” He asked, slinging both arms over the back of the bench and looking between them. “Don’t you just wish we could all get along, like back in middle school? If I had it my way, I’d make a cake made out of rainbows and smiles, and we’d all eat it and be happy--”

“Wade,” the secretary spoke up, looking up from his desk. “Get lost, you don’t even go here.”

Wade stood up, giving a quick salute. “You got it, Stan.” He sauntered out of the waiting area and Steve watched the door shut, frowning.

“Did that just happen, or did you hit me a lot harder than I expected and now I’m hallucinating?”

Brock groaned, rubbing his jaw. “I don’t goddamn know.”

They went back to sitting down, shutting up, and staying put as the main door opened again, Nurse Strange coming in with two ice packs. He passed one to each of them, giving their injuries a cursory look, pasting a bandage over Steve’s split knuckles. “Keep the ice packs on and any swelling and bruising should go down by tomorrow.” He frowned, looking between them for a moment. “You’ll probably want to get antibiotics if you cut your hand open on his teeth. Fight bites aren’t something to joke around with.”

Ms. Hill came out of the office, raising her eyebrows. “We’ll handle the rest from here, Stephen, thank you.” She left the door open, nodded them inside. “Lucky for you two, Principal Fury doesn’t want _me_ doling out the punishment.”

Steve shuffled past her, ducking his head low under her glare. He took a seat in Principal Fury’s office, looking up at the man and swallowing his nerves as Brock sat down in the other chair. Obviously, he’d never been called to the principal’s office before. Never been in trouble at school. That was sort of difficult when he was the only student in his ‘class.’

Principal Fury folded his hands on his desk, looking between them. “Ms. Hill will be calling your parents, of course.”

Steve winced, but Brock only rolled his eyes. “Detention or suspension, Fury?”

“I’ll deal with you in a minute. Steve.” Principal Fury’s tone was no warmer addressing Steve than when he’d dismissed Brock. “Care to explain yourself?”

 _He started it_ sat on the tip of his tongue, but Steve bit it off. He shrugged instead. “Disagreement got out of hand.”

The unimpressed look didn’t leave Principal Fury’s face. “Detention after school, two weeks, with Ms. Hill. I understand you have an after school commitment to Mr. Coulson until the middle of May, so you’ll be serving your sentence after that. You’re dismissed, go wait in the lobby until your parent or legal guardian arrives. I want to speak to them as well. As for you…” He turned to Brock and Steve hurried from the room, sitting down and putting the ice pack back on his eye.

His momma got there before Brock came out of the office, her face shifting between worried and annoyed and some other emotion Steve couldn’t place--disappointed, maybe? She crossed the room silently, sat down next to him and took the ice pack away, inspecting his black eye for a minute without speaking. Finally, she put it back and sighed.

“What happened?”

“Got in a fight.”

“Steve--”

“Mom, it’s nothing. We just got into it.” He shrugged, looking away as the office door opened again. 

Brock stepped out, looking tense and angry, and Principal Fury followed him. “Steve, Mrs. Rogers, in here.”

Steve sat down next to Sarah in the principal’s office, twisting his ice pack in his hands.

“I don’t think it needs to be said,” Principal Fury began as he shut the door, walking slowly back around his desk, “that I do _not_ approve of fighting in this school. It doesn’t matter why, or who, or what happened. I have heard every story from every student, and if Phil Coulson wasn’t a close personal friend of mine--if I didn’t owe him my _life_ \--Steve would be doing two weeks of after school detention starting tomorrow, same as Brock Rumlow. I do not expect my generosity to backfire on me, is that understood?”

“Of course. I’ll be honest, when I got the phone call, I was certain that the wrong person had been contacted. Steve’s _never_ had a behavioral problem before.”

“He’s also never attended a public high school, ma’am. These kids, they get into it over things you wouldn’t believe. Relationships, mostly.” Principal Fury looked at Steve, his eyebrows furrowing. “Care to elaborate on your disagreement now that Brock isn’t here?”

Steve looked down, shuffling his feet. He wasn’t going to throw Bucky into the middle of this. “We don’t like each other. Nothing more complicated than that. Sorry.”

“Mmhmm…” His attention moved back to Sarah, his tone still serious. “I think it’s best if you take him home for the rest of the day. Or to the doctor’s office, as I’m sure Nurse Strange told him, a fight bite is nothing to take lightly.” He nodded to Steve, to the bandages on his knuckles. “I’ll be sure to let Phil in the drama department know that he’s missing rehearsal tonight.”

“And I’ll make certain that Steve understands my expectations of his behavior in school from now on.” She stood up, shaking Principal Fury’s hand briefly. “Thank you for calling me. We’ll have a lot to talk about at dinner tonight, Steve.”

He followed her out, looking over his shoulder where Brock still sat on the bench outside the office, arms crossed sullenly. It seemed like he was getting off lightly, really. Steve held the door as a tired-looking woman stepped into the waiting area, her voice carrying after him down the hall. “What did you do now, Brock? Oh, just wait until your father…” The words faded and Steve shook his head. It wasn’t his business.

“Momma…” He finally broke the silence as they got into the car, rubbing his bandaged knuckles lightly. “I--”

“I can’t believe you.” She hadn’t started the car, only sat behind the wheel with her keys in the ignition. She turned to him, concern putting frown lines deep into her forehead. “I don’t even know what to think of this, Steve.”

“He’s one of Bucky’s jerk friends, and he doesn’t like that Bucky’s been hanging out with me, so he started a fight,” Steve explained quickly, looking down. God, it sounded dumb out loud.

“So you punched him in the face?”

“He punched me first.”

“I didn’t raise you to retaliate like that. Or at least, I didn’t want to.” She started the car, pulling out of the parking lot. “We’ll go home and have lunch, then call the doctor and see if we can get you in before the end of the day. And Steve?”

“Yes, Momma?”

“You’re grounded. School and musical practice only. I’ll be picking you up after. And your computer is to be used for school work only. Is that clear?”

“Momma that’s not--” He swallowed his protests at her look, nodding. “Yes, Momma. I’m sorry.”

She reached over, patted his knee lightly as they came to a stop light. “That boy gave you quite the shiner. Did you at least give as good as you got?”

He couldn’t stop a smile, putting his hand over hers and nodding. “I held my own.”

“Good. Don’t you ever do it again.”

“Yes, Momma.”

* * *

It was late when the phone rang, and Steve picked it up quickly, glancing at his open door to his momma’s room across the hall. She’d gone to bed less than ten minutes ago, odds were good she was still awake.

“Hello?”

“Steve.” Natasha’s voice on the line, with some background shushing. “What the hell happened today? Mr. Coulson just said you wouldn’t be there and made us go on like normal.”

“Are you guys just getting out of practice?” It was almost ten-thirty at night, Steve was halfway ready to go to bed himself.

“Practice ended about half an hour ago, but I had to drop Scott and Clint off at home. I’ve got Sam and Bucky with me still, so spill the details. I’ll put you on speaker.”

He sighed, getting up and closing his bedroom door, hoping that was enough to keep Sarah from being woken up. “Brock Rumlow is what happened. He showed up at my locker just before lunch and picked a fight. I fought back. Ms. Hill took us both to Principal Fury’s office and we got sent home for the day.”

“God dammit, Brock,” Bucky said on the other side of the phone. “Can’t wait to hear _his_ version of this bullshit.”

“Are you out of the musical?” Natasha pressed. “Suspended? The rumor around school is that you both got suspended because neither of you were in for the rest of the day.”

“I got sent home for the rest of the day, not sure about him. Had to go to the doctor’s because I punched him in the mouth and cut my knuckles open on his teeth. Did you know that fight bites are nothing to mess with?” Steve gave a half-hearted laugh, dropping onto his bed and looking at the ceiling. “I’m not kicked out of the musical, but as soon as it’s over I have two weeks of after school detention with Ms. Hill. And until further notice, I’m grounded. Momma’s gonna come pick me up after musical practice and make sure I go straight home, and I can’t use my computer for anything but school work.”

“What about study group?” Sam asked.

“Dunno, I didn’t want to push it today. God, I hope she doesn’t want me riding the bus tomorrow morning. I’ll have more information at lunch.” There was a sound outside his door, the squeak of the hinges on the door to his momma’s room. Steve lowered his voice. “Does being grounded usually mean no phone?”

“A lot of the time,” Bucky answered, just as a knock sounded on Steve’s door.

“Steve? Did I hear the phone ring?”

“I’ll talk to you guys at school,” he whispered, hanging up quickly and putting it aside. He stood up, going to the door and opening it. “It was Natasha, Momma, she wanted to know why I wasn’t at practice is all.”

She raised an eyebrow, holding out her hand. “You can explain to her tomorrow at school that you’re grounded.”

Steve hesitated only long enough to mute the ringer on his cordless phone, before handing it over. She nodded, slipping it into the pocket of her robe and kissing his forehead. “Go to bed, sweetie. I love you.”

“Love you too, Momma.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Everclear event actually happened at a party at my apartment in college, although someone wasn't doing like Clint and faking it with water in an empty bottle. The Peter in that story just randomly decided to take a shot of Everclear out of the bottle. And yes, all the moisture in his mouth dried up and he couldn't stop coughing.
> 
> Don't drink straight grain alcohol, kids, it's not fun.


	10. May

Steve had thought that Tony was the one to turn to when the impossible needed to be accomplished.

He was wrong.

Sarah Rogers had been firm in her grounding, and even study group wasn’t a reason for him to be allowed to go over to his friends’ houses. He’d lamented this fact to Natasha during musical practice on Friday, between his scenes on stage. It’d become tradition, especially since spring break, for most everyone to gather at Tony’s after practice on Friday. Partially to decompress, partially to get a chance to work on homework. They’d make plans for other study sessions during the weekend, and get home in the early hours of Saturday morning. That Friday, Steve was going directly home.

That Monday, he had an English assignment due that he really, _really_ wanted someone else’s eyes on. And a history test on Tuesday that he, Clint, and Natasha could all use some extra prep for. Not to mention the chemistry lab write-up he was supposed to do with Scott, though that could be done during his study hall, it wasn’t due until later in the week.

Walking out of the school building on Friday after practice, Natasha didn’t go to her car. She tossed her keys and her backpack to Clint and followed Steve to the pick-up area where Sarah was waiting. Steve watched her carefully, trepidatious. “Please, don’t get me in more trouble,” he whispered as they approached the car, giving his momma a little wave.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Natasha flashed him a grin, stepping around the car to the driver’s side as Steve opened the passenger door. “Mrs. Rogers, hi. I don’t know if you remember me, I’m Natasha? Steve and I have some classes together and I came over to study with him once?”

Sarah smiled back, her brows furrowing in confusion for a moment. “I remember you, yes. How have you been?”

“Great, I’ve been great. The musical is going really well. Listen, I know Steve’s grounded and can’t come over to Tony’s to study, but--well, honestly? I could really use him as a study buddy this weekend. We have a history test next week, and Steve and I--and our friend Clint, he housesat for you over winter break?--could really use the study time this weekend. Would you be opposed to a small study group at your house, with your supervision so you know that we’re studying?”

She looked at Steve and he raised his hands quickly. “Not my idea, Momma--”

“You have a study group?”

He swallowed. “Yeah. We get together at Tony’s on Friday and then break into smaller groups. I have an English project due on Monday and a history test on Tuesday. Could use a hand with both of them, really…”

She tapped the steering wheel, looking thoughtful. “How large would this study group be? I’m not hosting a party.” Eyes directed back to Natasha, who smiled sweetly.

“Five or six people, depending on who else needs help. I know Clint and I will be there for history, and for English… Tony, Bruce, and maybe Bucky? Possibly also Thor, if he has an assignment due.”

Sarah hummed, then nodded. “Sunday at noon at my house, then. You can set up in the living room.” She smiled, actually _smiled_ at Natasha, and Steve felt his heart lurch in his chest. “I’ll be working in my office, not hovering over your shoulders, but I’ll certainly know if you’re having more play than work.”

Natasha beamed, the picture of girlish joy over getting to _study_. “Thank you, ma’am. I’ll let everyone know. See you Sunday, Steve.” She waved and ran off towards her car, and Steve slowly exhaled.

“Momma… Thanks.” He looked over, gave her a smile.

“Studying is important.”

It was important--important enough that Sarah was serious about letting him have a study group on Sunday. The two of them worked in the kitchen that morning, made snacks and drinks to be shared out when his friends arrived. They rearranged the living room into a more suitable studying environment, finished pushing the couch into its new place just as the doorbell rang.

Steve paused long enough to kiss his momma’s cheek and whisper a _thanks_ before heading for the door. “Hey, guys, come on in. We set up the living room and there’s some snacks and stuff for when we want to take a break.”

Natasha, Clint, Tony, Thor, Bruce, and Bucky had all made it over, two cars in the driveway between them. He led the way back to the living room, settled in with everyone and let out a sigh of content.

At Tony’s, they studied, but they also talked about what was going on at school, and movies, and listened to music. They got their homework done, but it took hours as they got distracted, drifted into different groups where they needed or could offer help. Steve had [music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Isic2Z2e2xs), but it was soft classical, not classic rock. They talked, but it was mostly about the assignments, about feedback and what might be on the test. Their focus stayed pretty solidly on English for almost two hours--apparently Bucky and Tony’s AP class had a big assignment due, too--before they took a break, trooped into the kitchen for snacks and drinks and a mental reset.

“You gave Brock a hell of a black eye,” Bucky said, coming up by Steve at the sink and putting his glass down.

Steve frowned for a moment. He hadn’t seen Brock since the fight--an easy feat, in a big school where no part of their schedules overlapped and their only social link was Bucky. Still… “I didn’t hit him in the eye. I hit him in the mouth.” He held up his hand, where the faint marks were still on his knuckles. Looking more like paper cuts now.

Bucky shifted, glanced over his shoulder. “That’s not what he’s telling everyone.” He sighed, pushed his hair back out of his face. “Just… go with it, okay?”

“Buck--”

“Trust me. If he’s saying you did it, that’s better than the alternative.”

His lips pursed together for a moment, before he exhaled heavily. “Fine. Then sure, I gave him a hell of a black eye.” Everyone else was back in the living room, their voices drifting down the hall. Steve could see a shadow in the open door of his momma’s office, checking up on if they were still studying. “Come on, break time’s over. Time for history.”

They ordered pizza for dinner and, after a little pleading and bargaining, put on a movie from Steve’s limited collection to watch while they ate. Sarah joined them in the living room, smiled and shook her head.

“I suppose Steve could have a worse group of friends than you lot,” she announced, picking up a slice of pizza from the box and taking a bite. “You’re all very mature and responsible young adults.”

Clint snorted, putting his plate aside. “First time I’ve ever been called that.”

“Mature?” Natasha asked, at the same time as, “Responsible?” Bruce offered, simultaneous with, “An adult?” Bucky wondered.

“Young,” Clint clarified, making everyone laugh.

They finished their pizza and the movie, did one last check that everyone had their homework, and packed up to leave. Steve waved them off from the front door, shutting it as Natasha’s car pulled out of the driveway. He headed back to the living room, cleaning up abandoned plates and papers, unable to keep the grin off his face.

Most teenagers probably didn’t consider study group to be the height of social fun, but for Steve, with the Weirdos he called friends?

There wasn’t much better.

* * *

He was just getting ready for bed, math homework tucked away in his backpack, when Steve heard the tap on his window. _Tree branch_ , he dismissed it, pulling off his shirt and tossing it roughly towards his laundry basket.

Another tap at the window made him frown, eyes darting to the glass. There was a tree outside, a big old oak that sighed and creaked when the winds got strong. Tonight it was perfectly still, not even a puff of air to stir among the branches. And as he looked, another small pebble hit the glass of his bedroom window.

“What the hell,” Steve muttered, crossing the room and looking out the window. He nearly startled out of his skin as he saw Bucky down on the lawn, scrounging more small rocks out of the bedraggled remains of the flower beds. Steve shoved the window open, glancing at his closed bedroom door. “Bucky? What are you doing?”

“Oh, hey.” Bucky looked up, grinning like any of _this_ was normal outside of movies. “Come outside.”

“I’m grounded, remember?”

“You’ve got any ivy trellis right here, just climb down.”

Steve frowned skeptically, touching one hand to the screen over his window. He could just picture his momma hearing the commotion and coming to check on him, finding him halfway out the window when she opened his door. “Meet me at the front door,” he compromised.

“Window’s faster.” Still, Bucky brushed his hands off on his jeans and walked around the corner of the house.

Steve shook his head, shutting the window once again. He tried to make his pace sound normal as he left his room, tried to make it sound like he was heading to the bathroom if Sarah heard him. He poked into the bathroom, turned the light on before shutting the door. Then he made his way downstairs to the front door, hyperaware of every creaking step.

Pausing only long enough to slip some shoes on, he opened the front door to Bucky, looking over his shoulder once more as he stepped outside. The May night was cool and Steve shivered, crossing his arms over his bare chest. Damn, he should have grabbed a shirt or something. “What’s up?”

Bucky looked him up and down before snorting. “You’ve never snuck out before, have you?”

“I grew up on a boat, Buck. Sneaking out would have involved a _lot_ of swimming.”

He unzipped his lightweight hooded sweatshirt, passing it over. “Here, you can wear that. Let's take a walk.”

Steve zipped himself into the hoodie, stuffing his hands in his pockets and glancing back at the front door. Hopefully he wasn’t about to get locked out of his house in the middle of the night. Still, he followed Bucky down his front walk, onto the sidewalks. “So what couldn’t wait until school tomorrow, huh? Come on, you gotta have a better reason than enjoying my company to be here this late.” Had Bucky snuck out, too? Probably. How had he even gotten here? He wasn’t too far away by car, but walking it had to be at least half an hour. Still, a glance around showed no car in the driveway or on the street nearby.

They walked in silence to the corner, where a streetlight highlighted the stop sign. Bucky leaned against the sign, looking up at the moths fluttering into the light. “You think college is gonna be any different?”

Steve frowned, scuffing his shoes along the concrete. “I dunno. My basis of comparison is pretty minimal.”

“I turned eighteen back in March.” The non-sequitur made his head snap up, eyes back on Bucky’s face. “Thought I’d feel different. Like an adult. Instead I just feel…” He raised his hands and dropped them. “Lost.”

“Tell you the same thing I told Natasha back at the lake house. Everyone thinks we’re supposed to have all the answers right now, all the decisions made--but I think it’s okay not to know. I think that taking time to figure it out sometimes _is_ the answer. Making mistakes along the way.”

Bucky laughed, short and humorless. “Still trying to figure out if hanging out with you was the mistake, or if not snagging you sooner was. Your friends are all so… _different_ from what I’ve thought about them.”

“I’m sure your friends' reputations are different than how they really are, too,” Steve offered, trying to be charitable. What was wrong with his friends? They were all good people, even his momma said so.

“Maybe I just haven’t seen it. Or didn’t want to look for it. But back when I first moved here? At least back then, Brock and Alex and Arnim let me not be the kid sitting alone at lunch in high school. And the next year, when we saw Jasper sitting alone? We went over and sat down with him. Can’t say any of your friends offered that to me the year before.” He sighed, pushing off the stop sign. “What’re you going to college for?”

Steve was still trying to absorb the rest of Bucky’s statement, gaped at him like a fish at the sudden shift in topic. “Art,” he answered abruptly, clearing his throat and trying again. “I’m majoring in art at Georgia State. I just found out I got in. Guess my top pick was a bust, but their program is good. What about you?”

“I almost didn’t apply,” Bucky admitted softly, starting to walk back towards Steve’s house. “I thought… there wasn’t a point. I’d rather go to trade school and learn something useful than something frivolous. But then… I dunno, I guess something changed my mind.” He glanced at Steve, grinned under the streetlights. “Some stubborn blond kid who wouldn’t quit trying to be my friend, even when I was an asshole to him. So I put in one late application and waited to hear back.”

“Where--”

“Still waiting.”

Steve swallowed, before pulling his hand from his pocket, reaching over and clapping it onto Bucky’s shoulder. “You got this. If it’s what you want right now, it’s worth going for. And I’m rooting for you.”

“Lame,” Bucky laughed, shoving him off before pulling him in again, into a rough hug. “I better get back home before someone misses me. Last thing I need is Becca coming into my room for something and realizing I’m gone.”

They were back to Steve’s house, and he watched Bucky walk down the sidewalk and away, silent in the night. Steve swallowed, raising his voice as much as he dared to call after him.

“College is gonna be different, Buck. A whole new chance to be who you really are.”

* * *

Time was running out, and Mr. Coulson was going to accept nothing less than perfection. They ran through the musical from start to finish twice on Monday while he sat in the auditorium and watched. On Tuesday, they did it again with costume changes and set changes. On Wednesday, they went through the whole thing three times, finally got out of school at almost 11pm. Steve called Sarah during one of the breaks and begged her to let Natasha take him home, rather than coming to get him; he had no idea what time they’d actually be done. They were all too tired to go out anyways.

Thursday was their final dress rehearsal, start to finish on the show, with every costume change, set change, musical cue and lighting and they were performing for an audience of more than one. The entire cast and crew had a pass out of class after lunch and the third, fourth, and fifth graders from the nearby elementary school filled the auditorium as they prepared backstage.

“Everyone!” Mr. Coulson clapped his hands, getting everyone’s attention minutes before showtime. “I just want to thank all of you for your hard work. I hope this has been as fun for you as it was for me, and I’m so proud of each and every one of you for the effort you’ve put into this musical.” He grinned, looking at his actors, actresses, and stage hands. “Today and tomorrow--it’s no different than a dress rehearsal, and those have been going spectacularly all week. Go out there and break a leg, you guys got this!”

There was some scattered applause from the assembled students, before Natasha’s voice took over. “Curtains up in five minutes! Pepper and Tony in your places. Crew go get set!”

Steve spotted Bucky among the crew, wearing the traditional black turtleneck and pants meant to disguise his presence on stage. He took a breath, jogging over quickly and giving him a grin. “Worth it?”

Bucky snorted as he looked him up and down. “Sure, Jan. I get to skip English today, that’s definitely worth it.”

His smile faltered for a moment. “I meant the extra credit. You said you’d get a grade boost in shop?”

There was a moment of confusion, of furrowed eyebrows, before Bucky nodded quickly. “Yeah,” he looked away for a moment, biting his lip. “Yeah, that--that too.”

“Bucky--”

“Shut up and focus on the stage, Steve.”

“You--”

“Quiet on set!” Natasha called and Steve jumped, looked over his shoulder. “Curtains up in five… four… three… two…”

There was no time left to talk to Bucky, to ask him questions. Steve turned back to him, but Bucky was gone, off with the rest of the crew preparing the next scene. He shook it off, jogged across the stage to wait for his cue with Wanda and Jane.

The show went well, in Steve’s unprofessional opinion. Everyone had their timing down, their lines memorized, and while no one among them was a professional dancer, Natasha had taught them well enough to impress a bunch of grade schoolers. They were all grinning by curtain call, eagerly ran on stage to take their bows to the applauding children.

There was about half an hour until the end of the school day, time spent backstage changing out of their costumes and scrubbing off their stage make-up. Steve pulled on the sweatpants and t-shirt he’d worn that morning, looking around. Modesty had been long abandoned, no one flinching as Tony walked by in just his boxers and his costume leather jacket. Darcy was somewhere with industrial strength make-up remover wipes, he’d have to go find her.

His eyes fell on Bucky, stood off to the side, looking towards the exit. They were dismissed from their class but had to stay in the auditorium under Mr. Coulson’s supervision until the final bell. Steve gave up the idea of getting the heavy stage make-up off his face, weaving through the crowd to stand by Bucky. “Hey.”

“Hey, yourself. You looked pretty good up there, what I saw when I wasn’t running around like a madman.” Bucky grinned, patting his shoulder briefly. “Gotta admit, I’m surprised you can sing and dance without collapsing.”

“It’s different. Kinda. A lot of the asthma problems are made worse by stress and this… it’s routine enough by now not to be stressful. Plus I got a new medication after we moved here.” He leaned himself on Bucky, careful not to smear foundation on his shirt. “You were lying, weren’t you?”

“What?”

The words had slipped out unintended, but now they were there. Steve had to press on. “There’s no extra credit in shop class for doing the musical, is there? It was just your excuse.” Bucky was staring at him, starting to shake his head, and Steve kept pressing. “Come on, _no other teacher_ offered extra credit. Hell, The Ancient One only let me come down during art class to do set work because I take two art classes. And you just magically get extra credit from Mr. Schmidt? Don’t lie to me, Bucky.”

“I’m not--”

“I asked Scott, because he takes junior metal shop. Mr. Schmidt wasn’t giving out extra credit.” He hadn’t meant for it to be a confrontation--certainly hadn’t intended to start a fight. He just wanted to know the truth. Why had Bucky signed up for the musical, and why had he lied about it? Steve planted himself more firmly in front of Bucky, blocking his escape. “ _Talk_ to me, man.”

“I came along to look out for you, okay?!” The words burst out of Bucky, loud enough to draw all backstage attention to them. Everyone else’s conversations went quiet, and Steve could feel their eyes on him, but it was too late. “You know the kind of people you made friends with, Steve? You wanna _really_ know what your Weirdos are like?” It was Bucky’s turn to press, pointing over Steve’s shoulder. “Thor Odinson sits back and laughs while the football team hazes anyone who tries out. Bruce Banner once snapped on a kid for sitting in his spot in the lunchroom and gave him a bloody nose. Tony Stark is an obnoxious know-it-all who doesn’t think of anyone but himself. And Natasha Romanoff is the _worst_ among them, because if she can’t find dirt on you, she’ll just _make something up_. You ever seen inside her little black book, Steve? Ever ask what she’s written about _you_?”

Backstage was deadly silent, even the muffled sounds of grade schoolers leaving the auditorium gone quiet. Steve took a step back, holding his hands up, his mouth gaping open and shut a few times.

“Holy shit,” someone finally whispered, Clint’s voice carrying through the crowd. “Roast me next, dude.”

That broke the stillness. Bucky shoved past Steve, ducked out the side door and into the hall.

Helpless, Steve watched him go, the sounds of backstage getting back to their conversations distant in his ears. When Natasha put a hand on his shoulder, he shrugged her off quickly, glancing at the clock. Five minutes until the end of the school day.

Steve found Darcy and took off as much of the stage make-up as he could, grabbing his backpack and practically running for his momma’s car at the pick-up as soon as the final bell rang.

He had too much to think about, too much to process. Bucky’s words had sounded too sincere to just be rumors or… or anything but firsthand experience.

Shit.

* * *

Friday was like a nightmare flashback to his first day of school. He left home early to catch the bus, which blew past him to the corner and had to circle back for him. Rather than being in Doctor Selvig’s office, he grabbed a homeroom pass from T’Challa before the first bell and spent his homeroom hiding out in the art room.

When lunch came around, Steve couldn’t bring himself to go to the projection room above the auditorium. He couldn’t bring himself to sit alone on the quad or in the lunchroom, either. So, he slipped into the bathroom and spent his lunch break locked in a stall, trying not to hyperventilate.

Why was he so afraid of seeing his friends?

What Bucky had said, had accused them of--it rang too true. It _had_ to be true. And he’d ignored any warning signs because he was so desperate to have anyone convince him that public school wasn’t a terrible idea.

Natasha flipping her little notebook open and closed while she talked to him.

Tony shoving his opinion into any and all conversations.

Thor laughing about putting the newly minted varsity team through training.

Bruce’s offhand comments about his temper, his therapy, his difficulty adjusting.

Maybe on their own, those things weren’t that bad. But piled all together? Turned against one person? Steve could see how much of a nightmare it had been.

He didn’t think it was intentional--not all of it, anyways. He didn’t _want_ to think that the people he’d become close to were like that. 

There was one person in the group that Bucky didn’t seem to hold a grudge against, didn’t seem to think Steve needed protecting from. Maybe… maybe talking to him would clear the air a little bit.

Maybe.

He found Clint in the projection room above the auditorium after school, thankfully without Natasha at his side. It was opening night for the musical, curtain’s up at six. She was probably running around backstage with Mr. Coulson. Steve dropped into a chair, heaving a sigh. He could do this.

“I didn’t know any of them in middle school, I was at Novacore,” Clint said, before Steve could even open his mouth. “But I can tell you what it was like, being one of a handful of new kids when we started high school.”

“What was it like?”

“Stressful as fuck. I had a panic attack in my first homeroom here because this school is a _lot_ more populated than Novacore. And there, I knew how to survive--you stay out of people’s way. Here, that seemed impossible. I ended up spending half of my first day in the nurse’s office just trying to breath and the other half completely lost. Ate lunch with Doctor Strange, _that’s_ how bad my first day was.”

Steve couldn’t help a smile. “One-upped, Clint, I ate lunch alone in the bathroom my first day.”

“Gross, dude.” Clint laughed, leaning on the opening in the wall and looking past the spotlights to the stage. “Day two, things were actually worse. There was this girl that I realized was following me. I’d catch glimpses of her out of the corner of my eye, in the halls between classes, sometimes in class with me. Saw her across the field in P.E. while Thanos was putting us through fitness assessment torture, just staring at me. I’ve been looked at like that before, you know, like someone is trying to figure out just where to dig their fingers in and pry to rip you apart.”

“That is terrifyingly specific.”

“I went to a terrifying middle school. Seriously, you’re lucky your momma sent you to SML, they would have eaten you alive at Novacore.”

“So what really happened to make you and Natasha friends, if she was looking at you like that?”

Clint laughed, shaking his head. “I turned it back on her. Asked a couple of people in a couple of my classes about her and got this whole crazy story. She doesn’t have friends, all she does is start rumors about people. Had a lot of rumors going around about her, too. Some not so nice. So one day at lunch, I see her across the quad and she’s not looking at me, for once, she’s got this little notebook on her lap and is writing in it. I knew I had to do something, make some move before rumors started about _me_ and made this whole school even more unbearable. Back at Novacore, I would have had to go over and start a fistfight. But here…” He shrugged. “Here I walked over and held out my hand and said ‘hey, I’m Clint, wanna eat lunch with me?’ Because, you know, manners and shit.”

“Manners and shit,” Steve repeated, frowning. “So just like that you two were--”

“No, she just glared at me and walked away. But I kept trying. And finally one day she snapped at me to leave her alone, and I said something stupid about how she seemed alone enough, and just sat down next to her and ate my lunch. It wasn’t like flipping a switch or anything, but… eventually she started talking to me. Put away her little notebook and answered my questions. It kinda grew from there.” He smiled, shook his head. “Listen, I know what Bucky said yesterday was, uh, a lot. And I don’t know how much of it was intentional. But… I mean, dude. Middle school. Gotta move on at some point, right?”

“Right… Maybe I should talk to him about that…”

Clint nodded. “Good luck. Mr. Coulson is flipping his shit because no one’s seen you or Bucky all day, by the way. You might want to go assure him that you’re still on for tonight.”

Steve stood up, stretching out and nodding. “Time to go be my lovely Pink Lady self. Thanks, Clint.” No one had seen Bucky, either? A sinking feeling was settling in his gut.

The other teen waved him off lightly. “Don’t mention it. Now go rock your poodle skirt and Mary Janes.”

He had to worry about Bucky later. For now, it was out of the projection room, across the auditorium, and backstage. Steve found Mr. Coulson, assured the drama teacher that he was there for the musical, ready to go. They had a few hours to kill until showtime, but it wasn’t time wasted. After their runthrough with the grade schoolers the day before, everyone was focused on perfecting their performances for the crowd of teachers, parents, and fellow students that would be there Friday night.

Steve found Natasha with a clipboard and a walkie-talkie backstage, coordinating with the dropcloth rigging crew up in the catwalks. They’d very nearly dropped a painted background on Pepper’s head the previous afternoon, something no one wanted repeated.

“Hey, Natasha…” He shifted his weight, giving her a tentative smile. “Sorry I ditched homeroom.”

“And lunch?”

“And lunch.”

She looked him up and down, before smiling, shrugging one shoulder. “It’s okay. I guess you had your reasons. But that stuff Bucky said--”

Steve waved a hand dismissively. “I gotta talk to him about that. Whatever happened… it was middle school, right? Things were different.”

“Right…” Natasha sighed, setting her clipboard down. “I was--was stuck, back then. Being controlled by my mother and her expectations of me and--look, I know it’s not really a good reason, but it felt like the only way I had any power was to have dirt on people. Hasn’t really gone away, I guess, but I try not to use it against people these days.”

He wasn’t sure that it was okay, but he wrapped an arm around her shoulders anyways, pulled her into a rough hug. “What’s written about me in your little black book?”

Natasha grinned. “Steve Rogers, not French, grew up on a boat. Momma’s boy. Likes art. _Good_ at art. Never been drunk, never been kissed, never been to school before.” She looked thoughtful for a moment, her grin fading to a more sincere smile. “A really good friend to have.”

“Some of those things aren’t true anymore.” He was talking about being drunk, remembering Saturday night at the lake house, but the look in her eyes changed and Steve felt his cheeks warm up.

“That didn’t count as a kiss.”

“I wasn’t--”

“Why would I even want that to be a kiss, Steve? I mean, no offense, but--”

“Well now I think I _should_ be offended--”

“Oh my god,” the walkie-talkie squawked with Clint’s voice and they both jumped. “Just kiss for real and get it over with, you two!”

Natasha grabbed the walkie-talkie from her pocket, pressing the button. “Get off this frequency, Clint.”

“I can see you blushing from up here, Nat. You too, Steve.”

Steve looked around, clearing his throat. “I have to go, um, change and--”

“Yeah, the--oh, hey, Ned, let me give you a hand with that!” Natasha hurried away and Steve took off in the opposite direction, his face still flaming with embarrassment. Dammit, Clint.

Laughter drew him to a corner of the stage, his shoulders dropping with unexpected relief. There was Bucky, cackling with delight as he danced with Sam.

“...should have tried out. Coulda been my _romance_ ,” Sam was saying as Steve approached, both teens snickering. He looked up, grinning brightly. “You and me and Steve could have been in a real love triangle.”

“What’s this about a love triangle?” Steve tried for casual, but he couldn’t help but notice how Bucky’s laughter dried up, how Bucky’s eyes bored into him.

“Bucky’s a good dancer, he would have probably landed the role of Roger instead of Pietro if he’d tried out.”

“I’d rather be Cha Cha Digorno.”

Sam snickered. “Excuse you, I am a Cha Cha _Delivery_.” He bumped his hip into Bucky’s, before doing a short twirl. “Maybe if you’d tried out, I’d have a partner that didn’t step on my toes every other performance.”

“Keep dreaming, Sam. I’d step on your toes _every_ performance.” Bucky nudged him back, before turning to Steve. “You think you’re ready for tonight?”

So they were going to be cool. Okay. Steve could be cool. He shoved his friendship stress to the back with probably visible effort, letting the musical stress come to the front of his mind for the first time all day. Oh, god, his momma was gonna be there. “I-I hope so.”

“One hour until curtains!” Mr. Coulson shouted to the room at large and Steve wheezed in a breath.

Bucky touched his shoulder, squeezing gently before firming his grip. “Hey, look at me.” Reluctantly, Steve’s gaze moved up. “You _got_ this. Say it.”

“I… I got this.”

The other teen rolled his eyes. “Say it with _confidence_ , punk.”

Steve sucked in a deep breath, straightening his back. “I got this.”

“Good. Now go get dressed.”

He found his costume, got changed and into his make-up with Darcy and Jane’s help. Wanda approached just as Steve was buttoning his shirt over his mic pack, her eyebrows furrowed with concern.

“Has anyone seen Pietro? He disappeared when I went to get changed.”

Steve wracked his brain, but he couldn’t remember seeing--or could he? “I think he was heading up to the projection room where Clint is while I was on my way over here.”

Wanda rolled her eyes. “They better not be hooking up in there.”

“You’re one to talk,” a new voice spoke up, Loki approaching them and crossing his arms, looking sulky. “Maybe he got cold feet, ran away, and I’ll get my time to shine.” He glanced at Steve, looking him up and down slowly. “Just try not to embarrass me out there.”

Steve grinned. “No promises. You want a hand looking for him, Wanda?”

She bit her lip, looked between Steve and Loki, then nodded firmly. “If he’s chickening out, I’ll wring his neck. We agreed to both endure this together.”

They walked off and Steve raised an eyebrow. “Endure it together? You seemed like you were having fun the whole time.”

“Some of it has been fun, but I could have passed on the fake out make outs with Scott. That guy is weird. He has a nickname for _everyone_.”

He considered it, laughing softly. Scott _did_ seem to have a strange habit of nicknaming everyone. Calling him _Cap_ , he’d heard the other teen call Clint _Hawkeye_ more than once, and… What had he called Natasha? A Black Widow in training? Something like that. “Scott’s okay. Or is it more of a--”

Her face flushed scarlet and Wanda elbowed him. “Shut up and stop listening to Natasha.”

“Hey it’s not--”

“Mr. Coulson!” Today was Clint’s day to interrupt him, Steve had time to think, before Clint came around the curtain. He had a red-faced Pietro’s arm slung over his shoulder, was clearly helping the younger teen walk. “We got a problem!”

Mr. Coulson rushed over, along with most of the people backstage. Steve saw Loki hurrying closer, his face twisting between concerned and excited. Sam and Bucky came up from behind him, and from somewhere off to his left, Natasha appeared. Wanda left Steve’s side, rushing to her brother as Clint got him into a chair.

“Okay, okay, calm down, everyone,” Mr. Coulson instructed, crouching down next to Pietro and speaking quietly. He shook his head, patting him on the shoulder as he stood up. The drama teacher’s eyes tracked across the backstage crowd. “Clint, go get Nurse Strange. Wanda, can you call your parents?”

She stood up, her hand grasping Pietro’s firmly. “They're already on their way here, I'll find them when they arrive.”

“Then that just leaves us having to swap out Pietro. Where are my understudies?”

Natasha stepped up before anyone could move, her voice carrying over the hushed conversations backstage. “Bucky can take the role.”

“I can?” Bucky asked beside Steve, his voice wavering.

“He knows all the lines.”

“I do?”

“And he’s been practicing the choreography.”

“I have?”

Steve looked from Pietro to Clint’s retreating form, then to Natasha, then to Bucky. Things clicked into place half a second too late.

“Perfect,” Mr. Coulson declared, looking to Bucky and nodding. “Get changed and get ready, we’re inside of thirty minutes to curtains.”

“Are you _fucking_ kidding me?!” Loki nearly shouted as Mr. Coulson walked away, throwing his arms up before dropping straight to the floor. “That’s it. The universe hates me.”

“Fear not, little brother, there’s always next year.” Thor stepped up, patting Loki on the head before looking to Bucky. “Come on, I’m sure we have something in your size, and Jane and Darcy can get your make-up on.”

Bucky hesitated just a moment, turning a furious look on Steve. “You planned this, didn’t you?” he hissed, before following Thor towards the costume closet.

There wasn’t time to argue it. There wasn’t time to panic about it, either. Steve still had to get ready, but he was peripherally aware of Clint returning with Nurse Strange and then talking quietly with Natasha. He was peripherally aware of the looks Bucky was shooting him, like somehow this was his fault.

At curtains up, that all ceased to matter. There was a full house in the auditorium, and while he attempted to find his momma among the audience when he stepped on stage the first time, Steve gave it up almost immediately. Soon he was too wrapped up in the musical to even think about her.

He sang and danced across the stage with the others, spoke his lines with a clear confidence that two months ago he would have sworn he didn’t have. And despite the very last-minute change, Bucky _did_ seem to have all the songs and dance moves memorized. Steve could see Sam’s grin across the stage during the school dance portion, as Bucky blushed and stumbled his way through their small dance number--perfectly in character.

The only problem was backstage, between their scenes. Bucky was definitely avoiding him. Steve had thought they were going to be cool, but now he wasn’t so sure.

“Bucky,” he tried during the sleepover scene, keeping his voice as low as possible to not interrupt what was happening on stage. “Can we talk about this?”

“Nothing to talk about.”

“I didn’t plan anything--”

Bucky walked away.

During Wanda’s _Beauty School Dropout_ solo, Steve tried again. They had time to talk, if Bucky would just _listen_ to him, the next scene was only Tony and Pepper. They didn’t even need a costume change to occupy their downtime.

He managed to corner Bucky at the water table, grabbing a bottle for himself and drinking quickly. “I didn’t plan this.”

“Whatever.”

“No, Bucky, _listen_ to me!” Steve hissed, probably louder than he should have been. “You don’t like my friends, fine, you have your reasons. I don’t like yours either, but I’ll admit I never gave them much of a chance. That doesn’t mean that we have to hate each other. Come on, we had fun over the summer, why was it ever different when I came to school?”

Bucky turned to him, his face twisting for a moment, going through different emotions. “You know what being called _Bucky_ used to mean to me? It used to be what my friends called me, back before we moved here. Then I got here and suddenly it was… _babyish_. Rumors got around school that I was a momma’s boy, then they got twisted. I spent all of eighth grade trying to figure out how to prove that I didn’t still sleep with a baby blanket and a stuffed animal. It was fucking hell. So yeah, when you showed up and called me Bucky, it threw me right back to all that. You know the kinda shit the guys gave me for the first month of school? Jesus, I didn’t even want to _look_ your way in case it started again after Jasper got beat up by a girl and all the mocking finally turned to him.”

Steve swallowed, his eyes on the ground. Wanda’s solo was finishing up. “Buck--I didn’t know. I couldn’t have known. Woulda done things differently if I had.”

“Yeah, well, it’s too late for that. I’m just trying to get out of high school with as much dignity as I can keep, and your stunt to put me on stage isn’t helping.” He turned, walked off as Tony and Pepper took the stage again.

Steve didn’t see Bucky backstage for the rest of the performance. Under the lights they did okay, sang their song and did their dance together, but Bucky would barely look at him.

There really wasn’t time to worry about it, though. Everyone rushed around backstage in preparation for the final scene, all hands on deck to help Pepper into her costume change. Olivia Newton-John had allegedly been sewn into her pants, but they didn’t have time for that. Lots of baby powder and some cleverly hidden snaps would have to do.

It was the big moment, the infamous scene--a carnival, a reveal, a song between the two leads. Steve may have been a named character on stage, but for this he was all background.

“Tell me about it, stud,” Pepper said, her voice low and almost crooning. She turned away, one finger hooking gently under Tony’s chin to guide him after her, and the lights dimmed.

The spotlight that came up did not highlight Tony and Pepper. It centered on Steve and a second one fell onto Bucky.

That was not in the script. That was not even _close_ to in the script. There was a weighty pause as the [music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e__Pp4FxsjU) started, and Steve could feel himself blushing redder and redder. Thank god for stage make-up.

They were going to ruin the musical. Despite the spotlight on him, Steve could see Mr. Coulson in the front row, looking at his script, then the stage, then over his shoulder.

> _“I got chills, they’re multiplying  
> _ _“And I’m losin’ control  
> _ _“‘Cause the power you’re supplying  
> _ _“It’s electrifying!”_

Bucky’s voice rang out over the music and Steve felt his heart skip a beat, before he dove headlong into the next verse.

> _“You better shape up  
> _ _“”Cause I need a man  
> _ _“And my heart is set on you  
> _ _“You better shape up  
> _ _“You better understand  
> _ _“To my heart I must be true.”_

They moved closer together, their spotlights converging into one as the rest of the cast sang background for them. Steve let himself be led in the dance by Bucky, more improvisation than anything. They twirled across the stage, caught each other’s eye near the edge and shared grins.

Jane’s voice rang out for the next verse, her body close to Thor, the spotlight shifting abruptly to the two of th

> _“If you’re filled with affection  
> _ _“You’re too shy to convey  
> _ _“Meditate in my direction  
> _ _“Feel your way… Ow!”_

Their kiss was far from a staged fake out make out. Even from across the room, Steve could see it.

The lights came up and everyone convened in the center, where Tony and Pepper were once more the stars. This part of the dance number Steve knew. He clasped hands with Bucky with a grin, raised his arms as Tony and Pepper spun under the tunnel created by their co-stars. 

> _“You’re the one that I want  
> _ _“You are the one for  
> _ _“Ooh, ooh, ooh, honey  
> _ _“You’re the one that I want  
> _ _“You are the one for  
> _ _“Ooh, ooh, ooh, honey  
> _ _“You’re the one that I want  
> _ _“You are the one for  
> _ _“Ooh, ooh, ooh  
> _ _“The one I need  
> _ _“Oh yes indeed."_

The final notes of the song faded out with Tony and Pepper front and center and everyone still behind them, the lights going dark and curtains falling.

On stage, everyone was breathing hard, listening to the still silence from the other side of the curtain. Nervousness fluttered into Steve’s stomach, before the sound began.

Clapping, hooting and cheering, whistles. They rushed into their line for curtain call, saw the faint glow of the lights come back up a moment before the curtain raised. Everyone took a bow, Tony and Pepper stepping up front for a second set of bows to more cheering. Mr. Coulson joined them on stage and the crowd seemed to cheer louder as he also took a bow. After a moment the crew ran out, taking their own bows and cheers.

“Thank you Stan M. Lee High and community, for allowing us tonight’s performance of _Grease_!” Mr. Coulson called, grinning widely.

“Speech!” Someone shouted, causing a ripple of laughter through the crowd. Natasha hurried up to Mr. Coulson and passed him a microphone.

“I just want to say that I’m so proud of everyone who put this together. It couldn’t have ever happened without the hard work of the boys and girls behind me. This has been a dream come true!”

They took one final round of bows and applause, before rushing backstage again. Steve got changed and scrubbed his make up off, fighting down a yawn.

“I don’t know about you guys,” he said, dropping onto a chair between Bruce and Clint, “but I want to go home and sleep for about three weeks.”

“God yes,” Bruce groaned, dropping his head back. “I didn’t even appear on stage and I’m exhausted.”

It was late, his momma was waiting for him in the cafeteria to take him home. There had been talk about an after party at Tony’s, but it sounded like that was breaking up in favor of sleeping.

“I’m proud of you,” she said in the car, reaching over and squeezing his shoulder. “You look like you had fun up there.”

Steve patted her hand, nodding. “It was fun. Now I wanna sleep for about a month.”

“Take a shower first. And maybe eat some dinner.”

“Might sleep in the shower.” He laughed, staring out at the passing streetlights.

It had been fun, though.

* * *

“ _‘There was an idea,’_ ” Natasha intoned, her voice grave as she held up the school paper at lunch, “ _‘to bring a group of remarkable students together and see if they could become something more. Phil Coulson retired believing in that idea,’ Principal Fury informed the_ SML Chronicle _Friday night, after the train wreck that was Phil Coulson’s dream_ \-- Train wreck?!” Her voice climbed as she shook the paper. “I swear, I’m going to _kill_ Eddie Brock.”

“Hey, keep reading, this is funny.” Clint huffed, snatching the paper away from her. “Mr. Coulson isn’t retiring, he’s printing lies. And he’s not even mad about it. He thought the whole thing was funny.”

“What whole thing is that?” Steve dropped down to sit with his friends on the quad, balancing his lunch tray on one knee and opening his milk carton.

“Oh, the whole-- _ow_!” Clint snapped his mouth shut as Natasha elbowed him.

“The whole ‘you guys faked Pietro getting hurt to force me and Bucky to be on stage together’ thing?” Steve asked dryly, shaking his head. “Real great plan. What if he’d been pissed enough to leave?”

“Just count your lucky stars I wasn’t. And move over so I can sit down.”

Steve looked up, scooting over on the grass as Bucky sat down with them. The other teen’s cheeks were a little pink, but he seemed determined.

“Sure you want to be seen publicly with a bunch of Weirdos?” he asked regardless, almost feeling the eyes on the back of his neck. Steve fought the urge to look around.

Bucky shrugged, unwrapping his sandwich and taking a bite. “Why not? In a month I won’t be anywhere near here.” He looked among the group, a grin breaking out on his face. “I got accepted to NYU’s literature program.”

Steve almost choked on his milk, his eyes wide. “Holy shit, Bucky, congratulations!” He beamed, unable to help a little laughter. “Maybe we’ll be roommates, I got into the art program at NYU.”

It was like a weight had been lifted off him--off both of them, maybe. A month and they would be graduating, then it was just summer before they were off to college. And there, none of this would matter.

Even knowing he had two weeks of after school detention with Ms. Hill couldn’t bring Steve’s mood down for the rest of the day.

* * *

Okay, maybe detention _was_ a bit of a downer. 

For one thing, when he walked into Ms. Hill’s office after the last bell, Brock Rumlow was already sitting there, arms crossed and a sour look on his face.

For another, her punishment was making them wash P.E. uniforms.

She led them to a small utility room near the gymnasium, with an industrial sized washer and dryer and an equally industrial sized laundry basket of P.E. uniforms.

“Brock, you know what to do, so you can explain it to Steve,” Ms. Hill said, smiling almost sweetly before she stepped back out of the small, humid room, leaving the door open.

Brock rolled his eyes and sighed, before going over to the basket. “Come on. It’s idiot work.”

“So you must be pretty good at it,” Steve muttered, earning himself a glare.

“Don’t make me punch you again. First is split it into colors. Whites with whites and blues with blues. Check the whites for stains, anything that’s bad has to go into a bleach cycle, the rest can go in a regular wash.” Brock worked as he spoke, tossing items from the large dirty clothing bin into three smaller ones. 

After a moment, Steve metaphorically rolled up his sleeves and got to work helping. The smell was awful, who-knew-how-long worth of sweaty P.E. clothes, and leaning forward to get the last few garments out of the bottom of the bin had him almost gagging. Brock was visibly holding his breath as he tossed a few particularly nasty looking whites into the bleach cycle basket.

He showed Steve how to set up the washing machine next, measured out and dumped in the bleach before they loaded in the stained whites.

“Once those are done we’ll put them through a regular wash cycle, then I’ll show you how to do the dryer--but seriously, that one is idiot-proof. For now…” He pushed himself up onto a counter near the utility sink, kicking his feet. “The worst part about detention, boredom.”

He’d expected a silent, empty classroom. Maybe the chance to do some homework and studying that the musical had left him behind on. This was… Steve wasn’t sure what to make of it. He leaned against the dryer, quickly ran out of places to look in the little room. “Bucky says you told everyone I gave you a black eye.”

Brock snorted. “Yeah. You got a lucky shot.”

“Except I punched you in the mouth and we both know it.”

He didn’t answer, picked at a fingernail, looked at the jostling washer. Finally, Brock sighed. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

This was like torture. He shifted his weight, looked to the open door and wondered just how far away Ms. Hill was. Were they even supposed to be talking about anything but how to do laundry?

“Does it make you happy?” Brock asked abruptly, jumping off the counter just as the washing machine buzzed with the end of its cycle. He opened the lid, dumped in a measure of soap and let Steve reset it.

“Laundry? I’m pretty ambivalent.”

“No, dumbass, calling him _Bucky_. He told me, you know. About the summer in Paris--”

“Marseille.”

“Whatever. He told me that he hadn’t been that happy since he was a kid, hadn’t felt so free to be himself. He’s good with words, you know, writes poetry and shit.” Brock looked down and Steve waited. “He’s actually got a future outside of this fucking town.”

Telling Brock that he sounded like a jealous ex had gotten him punched before, so Steve chose his words more carefully this time. “I never asked Bucky to choose between being your friend or being mine.”

“No. _You_ didn’t.”

It didn’t take a genius to piece it together. Steve hadn’t demanded a choice, but Brock had. And Bucky had chosen Steve. Chosen the person that he could be himself around. He’d let whatever mask he’d been wearing drop away, and no one had rejected the person underneath.

Still, once upon a time, Brock had apparently been the person that sat down next to someone eating alone at lunch and made friends. He couldn’t be all bad.

Steve made up his mind, squared his shoulders and stuck out his hand. “Hey, I’m Steve Rogers. I’ve got this guy I know named James, but some people call him Bucky, and he says you’re not half bad.” He grinned at the confusion that crossed Brock’s face, still holding his hand out invitingly. “Says you’re not half good, either, but I think that’s just him trying to have a sense of humor.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Brock asked, reaching out and shaking Steve’s hand regardless. “Brock Rumlow. And yeah, James has got a real bad case of the thinks-he’s-funny.”

Two weeks of detention seemed to pass a lot faster after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some fun facts about this chapter!
> 
> 1) Steve and Bucky dancing to "You're The One That I Want" is the scene that Inspired It All. (legit, it's in my notes, 'Grease but stucky and a little Mean Girls')
> 
> 2) The script that I used didn't actually call for the final number to be at the end of school carnival like in the movie, and Jan (the character Steve plays) wasn't even in the scene. Two things that are Unacceptable, so I basically only used the script for bits of dialogue (you can download the pdf [here](https://englishmagazinesite.files.wordpress.com/2016/10/script_grease1.pdf), if you want to give it a read).


	11. June

Final exams, state exams, letting Ms. Danvers bully him into retaking his English state exam. Steve was more exhausted than he’d been after the musical, but there was a quiet thrill running through him. The school year was ending in just a couple of days and, as was apparently tradition, the senior class had all been dismissed from their final period on Wednesday to collect their yearbooks, hang out on the quad, and get signatures.

Sharon had spent a lot of time in art with him, lamenting Eddie’s efforts to include weird categories for senior superlatives, and Steve was dying to know what had actually made it in. He’d been hauled out of study hall by two underclassmen from the yearbook staff, gotten his picture taken in the hall with no explanation given.

Steve picked up his yearbook from the table with a grin and a wave to Sharon, quickly joining his friends at their usual spot and flipping through it. The portraits and quotes and memories could come later, right now his mind was on the mystique of senior superlatives.

The page was tight, full of black and white pictures, and Steve saw his own smiling face among them, under a simple piece of text reading _Friendliest_.

He scanned the rest, grinning and nodding. _Most Likely To Become President, Pepper Potts_ , looking downright _regal_ in her little black and white square photograph. _Best Friends, Clint Barton and Natasha Romanoff_ , the two of them posed back to back with their fingers raised like guns. _Charlie’s Angels_ , he was pretty sure had been the inspiration. _Cutest Couple_ raised his eyebrows, a picture of Thor and Jane together. How the hell...? They hadn't started dating until after the musical, when Jane got fed up with waiting and asked _him_ out instead. Steve tilted his book towards Natasha, pointing. "Explain."

"Darcy, Jane's best friend, is on the yearbook committee. She pulled some strings."

There were definitely some weird ones in there. Alexander Pierce stared out from near the bottom of the page, titled with _Most Likely To Become A Supervillian_. _Biggest Ego_ sat over a picture of Tony beaming at the camera.

“Did you know what they were taking your picture for?” Steve asked, tapping the page as Tony sat down.

“I guessed. I’m into it.”

Steve flipped back to the senior class, finding the B’s and skimming through pages. There was James Barnes, his mouth twisted somewhere between a cocky grin and a genuine smile. Under his picture was the little blurb the senior class had been asked to fill in with papers passed out back in November, things like nicknames and memories and plans for the future.

 _Bucky, but don’t call me that.  
_ _Having a real friend for the first time in a long time.  
_ _“Boys of Summer”  
_ _One day you’re gonna see my name in print._

Bucky sat down as Steve finished reading, glanced over and rolled his eyes. “Gonna draw an evil mustache on me?”

“I was thinking devil horns, actually.” Steve elbowed him, passing over his yearbook. “C’mon, you can be the first to sign it.”

The other teen pulled out a pen, looking thoughtful. He raised the book so Steve couldn’t see it, wrote briefly, glanced at him, then wrote something else.

Before Steve could get it back, Bucky passed his yearbook over to Bruce. “Here, it’s Steve’s, sign it,” he said, taking the book Bruce was holding--Thor’s--and passing it to Steve.

They passed around yearbooks for more than an hour, even after the school day had ended. Steve finally got his back as he was getting up to go home--thankfully with Natasha, no longer getting picked up by his momma now that his detention was done--and he opened it up with a grin, skimming all the notes and signatures in it. Considering he’d come to this school thinking he knew one person, who maybe wasn’t the person he thought he knew at all, and now he had a whole yearbook full of signatures from people he’d consider friends? Steve supposed he was willing to take the title of _Friendliest_ in the senior class.

* * *

There were pages upon pages of autographs and notes and little doodles in his yearbook. Steve sat up in bed that night, studying abandoned, going through page by page and reading each and every note that had been left behind.

One page near the back was dedicated to the musical, a photograph of everyone that had been involved with their names listed underneath. That page was absolutely covered in signatures, seemingly everyone that had been involved in the musical putting their name on it. Steve even spotted Mr. Coulson’s signature on there, much to his confusion. He didn’t _think_ he’d seen the man out on the quad.

The notes and letters had him alternatingly grinning and fighting back tears. Clint had signed his name with a little target next to it and an arrow. Sam had written a brief but heartfelt reminiscence of their months in the library together. Scott’s message took up half a page, long and rambling with half-constructed thoughts in it that jumped from subject to subject. Natasha’s neat script was hidden among a random collection of pictures from the winter formal, her words snaking around the images. 

He found Bucky’s picture again, with his name signed under it. Below his name was only a number.

Steve frowned, looking at the three digits, before flipping the yearbook to that page. It was a section header for the arts classes, something Steve vaguely remembered being photographed for while he was in class. Most of the page, however, was covered in Bucky’s writing, a note on one side that Steve read and reread and most certainly got more emotional about than he’d ever admit, and on the other half of the page…

It was a poem. Something that Bucky couldn’t have made up on the spot--could he?

> _The End of the Line_
> 
> _I met you at the end of the line  
> _ _A time when I felt my world wasn’t mine  
> _ _A journey to lands so distant and new  
> _ _Traveling backwards, until I met you  
> _ _A boy with sunshine hair  
> _ _And a laugh so ready to share  
> _ _A smile like mischief, a spark  
> _ _Kindness to light up the deepest dark  
> _ _I met you at the end of the line  
> _ _And you held my hand like it was fine  
> _ _Turned me not to the gloom behind  
> _ _But to the light I’d been trying to find  
> _ _It took a while, to see what was true  
> _ _The line doesn’t end  
> _ _Not with a friend  
> _ _Like you_

It was beautiful, there was no other word for it. Steve slowly closed his yearbook, the words playing over and over in his head as he got ready to sleep that night.

* * *

A year ago, Steve wouldn’t have imagined graduation being a big deal. He’d turn in his last assignments and a few weeks or months later, depending on where they were living at the time, he’d get a diploma in the mail. Possibly he’d already be in college by the time he got the slip of paper that proved he finished high school--online or in person, he hadn’t been sure then.

It was so different from where he was now. Sat on a chair next to Natasha, surrounded by the rest of the senior class out on the football field, with family and friends watching from the bleachers. He wore the same blue and white cap and gown as everyone else, was sweating to death in his nicest suit under it, probably also like everyone else.

In the middle of the crowd was a makeshift stage, with Principal Fury, Vice Principal Hill, Tony, and Pepper on it. Half of the class sat on one side, half of the class on the other. The underclassmen band had just finished the school song.

It was all sort of surreal.

Principal Fury stepped up to the podium microphone. “It is an honor and a privilege today to bring you the Stan M. Lee High graduating class of 2006. Today all of you become part of a much wider world, and we look forward to seeing how you shape that world as you grow into it. I’d like to introduce your class president and salutatorian, Miss Virginia Potts, better known as Pepper.”

He stepped back and Pepper stepped up to applause. She smiled, placing her papers on the podium and speaking clearly into the microphone. “When we were children, they asked us what we wanted to be when we grew up, and we told them things like _president_ and _astronaut_ and _dinosaur wrangler_.” Gentle laughter from the bleachers. “We saw only stars in our future and we were told to reach for those stars, to aim for the one that shone brightest to us and do everything in our power to one day grasp it. We grew up, and we saw stars dim and different stars light up. We grew up, and they told us that perhaps that bright star was out of our grasp, but we could settle for this dimmer one.” She stood up straighter, squared her shoulders. “And we said _no, I want that one_. We refuse to settle for anything but our own brightest stars, and when we cross this stage today, it’s another inch that our arms stretch. Soon enough our fingertips will brush the fringes of those bright stars, and soon enough they’ll be in our grasp. I believe in each and every one of us. I believe in our ability to do that. Let’s show the rest of the world what we’re made of.”

The applause was almost thunderous and Pepper moved back to her seat with a little smile. Tony leaned over from next to her, spoke low for a moment as Principal Fury took the podium again.

“Thank you, Miss Potts. Class valedictorian Mr. Anthony Stark, if you’d like to give your speech as well?”

Tony stepped up, no notecards in his hands. He grasped either side of the podium, looking gravely out at the crowd. “Pepper Potts is a tough act to follow, and I’ve never been one for speeches.” There was a murmuring among the crowd, Fury and Hill exchanged looks on stage. “There’s really only one thing to say today, well… maybe two. To the class of 2006, I love you 3000. And in the immortal words of Simple Minds, _don’t you forget about me_.” He held up both hands in peace signs, walked backwards away from the podium and to his seat as laughter and scattered applause took the crowd.

Principal Fury stepped up to the podium again, shaking his head. “I’d say see me after the ceremony, Mr. Stark, but I suppose this once, I’ll let that stunt slide. Now then, let’s begin.”

There were a lot of names to get through. Steve found himself drifting in and out of attention before they’d even gotten through the _A_ ’s, but he perked up as his friends were called. Each student had their name called, as well as their college and intended major announced.

“...Bruce Banner, Green Hills Preparatory School, biology…”

Natasha leaned over, her voice low as Bruce stood and walked across the stage. “I hear he has a fifteen year plan, now."

Steve raised an eyebrow. Bruce had been terrified of the idea of moving forward, of putting a foot into the future, and now he had the next _fifteen years_ planned out? "What is it?"

"Stay in school as long as possible."

“...James Barnes, New York University, literature…”

The look Natasha gave him was damn smug, and he punched her shoulder lightly. “We put in a request to be roommates.”

“Amazing.”

Bucky looked to them from the stage, gave a grin and a little wave that Steve was quick to return.

“...Clint Barton, United States Air Force Pilot Program, Maxwell Air Force Base…”

Steve’s slack-jawed surprise made her laugh, Natasha’s turn to punch him in the shoulder. “I know, right?”

“He never even mentioned it.”

“Wasn’t confirmed until like a week ago.”

They both waved as Clint crossed the stage, gave him a thumbs up that he quickly returned.

"...Eddie Brock, Georgia State University, journalism…"

Steve shook his head. “I thought print media was dying?”

Natasha shrugged. “Some people need to see their dreams crash and burn first, I guess.”

“...Sharon Carter, George Washington University, criminal justice…”

He glanced, automatically, to the front of the stage where parents could go to take a picture of their graduate receiving their diploma, and--yep, that had to be Peggy Carter, beaming and holding up a camera. Steve looked back at Sharon, giving her a quick wave as she stepped down from the stage.

“...Jane Foster, University of New Mexico, astronomy and physics…”

On and on the names went, the sun getting warmer and warmer overhead. Bugs flitted about, restless students and families shifting in their seats and fanning themselves with programs as the morning dragged into the afternoon. A graduating class of almost eight hundred was a hell of a lot of names to get through, Steve realized, as they hit the _M_ ’s and switched from the left side of the stage to the right.

“...Thor Odinson, University of New Mexico, physics…”

Natasha nearly choked, grabbing his arm tight enough to bruise. “Isn’t that the same school that Jane’s going to?”

Steve jolted back to full attention, trying to remember all the way back to the _F_ ’s. “I think so? I dunno.”

“Thor had a football scholarship to GSU that his father wanted him to take.”

“Guess he changed his mind?” He shrugged, gently taking her hand off his arm and rubbing the sore spot. “Are you really that surprised?”

The look Natasha gave him was withering. “I _didn’t know_ about this.”

“You’re slipping off the top of your game, then.”

One more light punch to his shoulder, before someone shushed them from behind.

“...Virginia Potts, University of California Los Angeles, business management…”

Both of them hissed in a breath, exchanging a look. Of course, Pepper was going to do whatever she wanted, and Tony was going to do whatever _he_ wanted, but…

“Are they going to try long distance?” Steve asked quietly.

“Hard to know. Tony seems okay with it but Pepper…” Natasha shrugged. “She’s a realist. She knows that phone calls and emails aren’t the same as being there in person. Tony _almost_ went to UC Berkeley, but… he’s Tony.”

“...Steve Rogers, New York University, art…”

It took him an extra moment to realize that was his name, Natasha having to nudge his side. Steve hurried from his seat, walking across the stage and shaking Principal Fury’s hand as he took his diploma. He shook Vice Principal Hill’s hand as well, stepped down and paused for Sarah to take a picture. He was supposed to go back to his seat for the rest of the ceremony, but he broke his stride, ducked over and gave his momma a quick hug.

“So proud of you,” she whispered, patting his back. “Go sit down.”

“...Natasha Romanoff, Duke University, linguistics…”

He made it back to his seat just as she was handed her diploma, couldn’t help a little whistle of approval. It didn’t skip Steve’s notice that Natasha crossed in front of the stage back to her chair without stopping, that there weren’t parents there to take her picture or give her a hug. 

He slung an arm over her shoulders as she sat down, pulling her in to a quick hug. “Perks of being eighteen?”

“Perks of being eighteen. She’ll either get over it or she won’t, I’m not going to dwell on it.” She wiped a hand under her eyes quickly, elbowing him. “Get off me, you’re all sweaty and gross.”

“...Brock Rumlow, United States Army Combat Engineering, Fort Leonard Wood…”

Steve watched as Brock crossed the stage, an unbidden image in his mind: the service portrait of his father, looking young but brave. Sarah didn’t talk about her late husband much, but there had been stories from his aunts and uncles at Thanksgiving, tales of a wild youth that the military had tamed into a responsible adulthood. Would the same thing happen to Brock? It seemed at least possible.

“...Anthony Stark, Massachusetts Institute of Technology, physics and engineering…” 

“It’s so weird hearing him called Anthony,” Natasha muttered, fighting down a yawn. Steve wasn’t faring much better in the wakefulness department, and he only nodded.

There were others, hours of names that Steve both did and did not recognize, even vaguely. People from his classes, his friends, his enemies. He sat with his diploma in his hands, trying not to bend the rolled up piece of paper, not to sweat through it. It wasn’t even his actual diploma, just a symbolic one, the actual one would have to be picked up inside before he left, but…

It was tangible. It was evidence that he’d done it, that he’d faced public high school and survived. He’d grown his circle from just him and his momma to friends that felt like family. He’d gone back to Brooklyn, seen the relatives he could barely remember, seen his father’s name carved in white stone.

It’d been a little less than a year, he was still only seventeen, but Steve couldn’t help but feel like he’d grown up.

Not too much, though, he thought afterwards, after the ceremony and after he’d picked up his actual diploma. After he’d gone home and changed into shorts and a t-shirt and kissed his momma goodbye. He hadn’t grown up too much, because as soon as he got to Tony’s and the elaborate graduation party the teen was throwing himself, he was still a kid more set on having fun with his friends than a young adult putting all his time into the future.

It seemed like half of the school was at Tony’s, spread out across the guest house and the yard. Tents had been set up, tables and chairs and there was [music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nN120kCiVyQ), of course, coming from strategic speakers all over the yard. Steve spotted Scott and Sam at a table, grabbed his own plate of food and joined them with a grin.

“Well, I survived high school,” he announced, making both of them laugh.

“Man, you barely survived the first week, I dunno how you did it.” Sam punched his shoulder lightly. “Congrats.”

“It’s genuinely impressive, after you passed out that first day on the track,” Scott added around a mouthful of cheeseburger.

“Never gonna live that one down…” Steve shook his head. “You guys are gonna carry on the Weirdo name after we’re gone, right?”

“Yeah, sure. Crutches Weirdo and…” Sam stopped, looked at Scott with a frown. “Nickname Weirdo?”

“I can work with that, Falcon.”

“Why--”

Scott grinned crookedly. “Because.”

People wandered by their table, stopped to congratulate Steve briefly, stayed and chatted for a bit. Sharon sat down with them for quite a while, angled her chair a little closer to Steve’s. Sam and Scott shared a look, before making weak excuses and leaving.

“That wasn’t subtle.” Steve pushed it off, turning to face her fully. “Congratulations. I hear you moved up to seventh in the class.”

She laughed briefly, but nodded. “Only because Pym took pity on my valiant efforts to be as smart as Pepper and Tony and gave me a B-. Just enough to push me ahead one ranking.”

“But criminal justice doesn’t care about physics, right?”

“God, I hope not. I didn’t see anything physics-related on the sample course map, but leave it to Georgetown to make that happen.”

He pursed his lips for a moment, considering it. “DC’s not that far from New York, at least not by train. Three, maybe four hours, right?”

Sharon nudged his shoulder. “That’s the Europe in you talking, no one in America takes trains if they don’t have to, we prefer to take absurdly long road trips between states. But yeah, it’s something like that.”

There had been something between them, had been months of talking during art classes, had been the winter formal and Valentine’s day. It hadn’t ever gone beyond that, hadn’t been something as concrete as _dating_. Hell, they hadn’t even kissed. Still, Steve could feel the undercurrent of whatever was between them, the gentle pull that he could choose to follow.

“Maybe we could--”

“Steve,” she cut him off, still smiling. “You’re sweet. I like you. I had fun when we went out, but… I had way more fun just talking with you in art. Let’s leave it where it is.”

He considered her words carefully, before nodding. “That’s fair.” Steve leaned in, kissed her cheek lightly. “But I bet your aunt is going to be disappointed.”

Sharon laughed, bright and clear. “I think her exact words were ‘you better climb that boy like a tree,’ but she’ll be glad I’m more career-focused than boy crazy.”

Steve laughed along with her, shaking his head. “I really need to meet your aunt. She sounds incredible.”

“She is.”

Sharon left soon after, and Steve turned, watched the ebb and flow of the party. People were in the pool--he spotted Clint in the water, fucking around with Wanda and Pietro, and waved--and spread out on deck chairs, at other tables, lying in the grass. A few adults mingled among the group, people that he guessed Tony’s parents had invited, given that Tony seemed to be the only kid talking to them. Steve wondered if Tony’s mysterious parents were here somewhere, or if they were off on another lavish and exotic vacation.

Most of the people were at least glancingly familiar, faces he’d seen in the halls, in classes, at lunch. There was, however, a small group that Steve didn’t recognize--at first. He frowned, trying to place the vaguely familiar faces, before Thor walked up and wrapped the most familiar of them in a hug.

“Quill!” He boomed, clapping the other teen on the back. “Come to crash the party?”

Quill--right, Peter Quill, the football captain from Novacore. He’d been at the Halloween party and Steve had heard enough stories about him, about Novacore, to be immediately apprehensive. Hadn’t someone gotten stabbed at Halloween?

There were four others with him, three guys and a girl. He was fairly certain that the girl wasn’t the redhead from Halloween, though she too was sort of familiar.

Thor talked with Quill for a while, before pointing in Steve’s general direction and heading off. Steve swallowed as the group approached, but they bypassed him without comment, made their way directly to the large buffet of food.

Of course. Why had he thought they were going to corner him and do something crazy? He’d been listening to too many of Clint’s stories about--

“Hey, mind if we sit here?”

Steve almost choked on his soda, turning around and trying to look nonchalant. “Um, sure, that’s fine.” He gestured to the empty seats, mentally cursing Sam and Scott for not coming back.

The five of them sat down and Steve turned to face them, got a better look at the group. They looked mostly like normal kids, though the guy immediately to Quill’s left was built like a damn tank. One of the other guys was tall and stick-thin, face focused on the handheld game in front of him. The girl was shorter, slight, and he remembered her, sort of, as being an angel at Halloween. The last guy was the shortest among them, his eyes locked on Steve.

“So, uh, hey. I’m Steve Rogers. I don’t think we’re ever met?”

“Peter Quill, but most people just call me Quill.” He stuck out his hand, shaking Steve’s quickly before pointing. “Drax--”

“The Destroyer,” he corrected.

“Right, right. The WWE hasn’t called you back yet, buddy. Anyways, that’s Mantis--” she beamed at him and waved “--and over there is Rocket.”

“Yeah hey howya doin’?”

“And the guy that won’t look up from the video game for _five fucking seconds_ is--”

“I am Groot.” His gaze shot up from his screen to glare at Quill, before he looked down again.

“Yeah, Groot.”

Those all had to be nicknames of some sort, Steve reasoned. Who named their kid _Rocket_ or _Mantis_ , after all? Still, he offered a smile, nodding to each of them in turn. “I’ve heard, uh, stories about some of you guys. I’m friends with Thor and Clint.”

Mantis’s smile grew almost impossibly wider. “Wait, wait, Quill’s told us stories about you! You’re the French kid who played a girl in the musical, right?”

“Oh yeah, and you slow-danced with that guy, uh, Barnes?” Rocket added, seeming to give up on his staring contest in favor of eating. “Man, we shoulda come out to see _that_ trainwreck.”

“Trainwreck, huh?” Bucky’s voice made Steve jump, looking over his shoulder as the other teen sat down. “Only because my dance partner has two left feet.”

Steve huffed, punching his arm gently. “They put us on the spot and you know it.”

“They really did. Assholes, all of your friends are Assholes. Capital A.”

Conversation split as others approached the table. A sopping wet Clint came over, draped himself over Steve’s back and cackled as he yelped. Natasha stopped by, leaning over the back of Bucky’s chair to talk to them for a time. When Quill and his friends got up to leave, Bruce joined them at their table, sat and ate and chatted. Eventually they all wandered off to different parts of the yard, different conversations and groups.

They partied until late, food and drink flowing freely, the alcohol out in full force as the sun went down. Jarvis had confiscated keys upon arrival, had a breathalyzer to test anyone that wanted to drive home. The music was loud and constant, Tony’s supply of albums seemingly endless and no one quite willing to change his preferences for their own as the night wore on, though there were whispers that Quill had tried.

It was late, or maybe already into hours called early, most of the crowd dispersed or moved inside, the [music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TrvVQm6kKZ4) faded into the background. Steve found Bucky out in the yard, lying stretched out in the grass and flopped down next to him. He rolled onto his back, looking up at the stars.

"I kept it."

Steve tilted his head towards Bucky at the words, a noncommittal hum in the back of his throat. 

"That drawing you did of me. For me. Back in France. I... I kept it."

"Oh..." His hand drifted over, found Bucky's and squeezed. The other teen had turned his head, was looking back at Steve. "I kept the poetry book. From Christmas."

Emotion shifted across Bucky's face, surprise and then something softer. He squeezed Steve's hand back, letting out a little laugh. "God, we're a couple of dorks, aren't we?"

"Nah. Weirdos all the way." They laughed, the sound tapering off into content sighs. Their hands stayed locked together as they both faced upwards again, drifting in and out of attention on the grass.

“You think Pepper meant it?” Bucky asked eventually, his eyes on the sky.

Steve frowned, letting go of Bucky's hand to prop himself up on one arm and look at the other teen. “Meant what?”

Bucky’s arm lifted, reaching out for the sky before his fist closed. “That the stars are in our grasp.”

Rolling back onto his back, Steve looked up at the sky, scanned the pinpricks of light until he found what he thought was the brightest one. He reached out, centered it in his palm and closed his fingers. “Yeah, Bucky. I think they really are.”

Someone was going to have to find them and haul them inside, or the automatic sprinklers would make for a real unpleasant morning. For the time being, however, lying out on the grass and reaching for the stars was all he needed to do. As long as he was with Bucky, it seemed possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reason Pepper's graduation speech sounds familiar is because I almost directly ripped it from the speech Anna Kendrick's character gives during the graduation scene in Twilight: Breaking Dawn. But hey, in this universe, good ol' Stephanie stole it from Pepper lol.
> 
> Also let me know if Boys of Summer works for you, because dang it, Don Henley/UMPG, just upload an authorized version of the song already! (That link worked when I made the playlist, I swear.)


	12. 2021

Somehow, some way, they’d all grown up. It was inevitable, and in the age of social media--of facebook posts and instagram pictures and youtube videos--it wasn’t even shocking, to see his friends after fifteen years, but some part of Steve was still surprised. No instagram picture of Natasha in Tokyo, no facebook update about Bruce’s doctoral application, no youtube video about Tony’s latest deep dive into AI, could really replace his friends as he remembered them. The maturity they’d grown into couldn’t quite overlap his mind’s eye, where they were still wearing Vans and band t-shirts, ripped jeans and leather jackets.

He supposed that it was the same for them to him, that they’d sooner recognize him in cargo shorts and a tank top than in the pressed slacks and button-downs he wore now.

Steve gawked at the doorway of the party for probably too long, his mind flashing over everything and everyone there, trying to connect old faces to young memories.

A couple approached him, a grinning man he recognized and a smiling woman he didn’t. Steve blinked for a moment, tried to clear his head, and-- “Clint? Holy shit.”

“Steve, I thought that was you!” Clint wrapped him in a brief hug, before stepping back, nodding to the woman beside him. “This is Laura, my--”

“His second wife,” she interrupted smoothly, shaking Steve’s hand quickly. “I’m guessing you’re one of the Weirdos Clint’s been so excited to introduce me to?”

His brain was still playing catch-up, and he landed on a particular phrase. “ _Second_ wife?”

Clint groaned while Laura laughed. “Babe, you _promised_ you wouldn’t do this to me.”

“Promises are made to be broken, dearest. Don’t worry, I’m sure Clint will be _happy_ to tell this story once everyone is here. Come, sit, we’ve got a table already.” She took charge easily, led both men to a large table near the middle of the room.

“I knew this was a mistake.” Clint dropped into a chair, shaking his head. “So, Steve, what have you been up to? You missed the ten-year, right? Actually, so did I. I got stuck on overnight cargo that whole week.”

According to facebook, Clint was now a pilot with a carrier freight company, sending packages from one end of the country to the other. According to instagram, he was also well-known at his local farmer’s market on the weekend. The man at the table with him, wearing a flannel with rolled-up sleeves over a plain t-shirt, blue jeans and work boots, definitely looked more like a farmer’s market favorite than a glamorous pilot.

“Yeah, I was going to try to make it, but I was in Hong Kong and, y’know, time zones.”

“Oh, I know time zones.” Clint patted his arm in sympathy, his eyes lighting up. “Hong Kong, though, that’s exciting.”

Steve shook his head. “Not when you’re stuck in market meetings over the _exact_ shade of blue your client wants. God, I did not go to art school to become a corporate graphic designer.”

“Doesn’t everyone who goes to art school think that?” A new voice cut in, and Steve turned, looked at the couple that joined them. It took him a few extra seconds to place them, before he grinned.

“Thor? And _Jane_ , is that you? Oh my god.”

“In the flesh. All three of us.” Jane patted her rounded belly, sitting back and sighing. “I really thought this little one wasn’t going to let me make it all the way here.”

“There’s not much in the world we’d miss this for,” Thor agreed, reaching over and rubbing the back of Jane’s neck. “But if the baby was _insistent_.”

Neither of them was much for social media, but there was a text thread that Thor would pop into on occasion. They were living in New Mexico or Arizona or something like that, working at a lab. Not exactly secretive stuff, but beyond the fact that it wasn’t S.E.T.I. and wasn’t Area 51, Steve wasn’t entirely sure what their jobs entailed. He _did_ know that they’d gotten married sometime after college, an event that he’d missed but sent his love and a gift to.

“Now here’s a group of familiar faces.” Someone walked by their table, stopping and smiling, and Steve felt his face split into a grin. A lot of them had changed over the years, but Mr. Coulson somehow looked exactly as he had fifteen years ago. “I’m glad to see that some of my best performers could make it for my retirement.”

“Mr. Coulson!” Clint grinned, getting up and giving the man a hug. “Was there ever a musical as good as our version of _Grease_?”

“Not during my tenure. I don’t think anyone else wanted to live up to the expectations, because I never got enough interest to do another one.” He shrugged, still smiling. “Maybe because Natasha Romanoff wasn’t there to scare people into it.”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Coulson, she’s scared almost all of us into coming to your retirement party,” Steve assured him, standing up and shaking the man’s hand.

More people were trickling in--Steve had been early, for sure--most of them older than the group at their table. Fellow teachers or friends of Phil Coulson, if he had to guess. He did spot a pair coming in that looked familiar, realized abruptly that it was Wanda and Pietro. According to Pietro’s twitter, the two of them had chanced separating for college and it hadn’t been a complete disaster. She’d gone to Dallas for psychology and he’d gone to Orlando for video game design. They were both living in upstate New York now, near enough to each other to visit but far enough to be independent. To have a sense of self again. Steve raised a hand to them as they came in but kept his eyes on the door, waiting. Schedules were tight when deadlines were due, but he’d _promised_.

The quiet music cut out abruptly and his mind teleported him back to winter formal as the first [notes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cmah-k8fv50) came blaring over the speakers. Not _Highway to Hell_ , but similar enough that he knew, instantly, it was Tony Stark walking in the door.

“Mr. Coulson!” Tony’s voice boomed over the speakers as he stepped into the room, holding a small, wrist-mounted device near his mouth. Smartwatch, probably. God, technology was _weird_. “You miss me?”

“Like a migraine, Tony!” Mr. Coulson called back over the music, which thankfully toned down. The DJ looked harried at the booth, giving an apologetic shrug to the crowd.

Tony sauntered across the floor like he owned the place, stopping at Steve’s table and looking them all over. “Okay, gang, phones on the table. Who isn’t a loyal friend?”

Steve snorted, taking his phone out and setting it down along with everyone else. Tony had been a few years late in _inventing_ the smartphone, Steve Jobs had beaten him there, but he’d perhaps _perfected_ it, changed it to open source and--well, it was well-documented on his youtube channel, just how he’d altered the industry. 

“You’re just lucky that your overpriced brick works internationally, Tony, or I’d have an iPhone,” Clint grumbled, tucking his phone back into his pocket.

“Yeah, and you’d have to upgrade it every two years because Apple believes in forced obsolescence instead of building a product to last.”

Steve shook his head, looking over Tony’s shoulder as a woman walked in with a little girl. He grinned, waving to Pepper. “Oh my god, Tony, she’s growing up so fast.”

The two joined Tony at the table and Steve smiled, holding out his hand even as the little girl ducked behind Pepper’s leg. “Hey, Morgan, remember me?”

She peeked out, her eyes lighting up, scrambling out from behind her mother and onto his lap. “Uncle Steve!” She looked around, eyes bright and attentive. “Where’s Uncle Bucky?”

“On his way. Or he better be.” Steve patted his goddaughter on the back gently, bouncing her a little on his lap. Tony and Pepper split their time between Los Angeles and New York pretty evenly, but that didn’t mean Steve got to see them when they were in his neck of the woods. Morgan, however, he made sure to see as often as schedules would allow. He wouldn’t be much of a godfather if he didn’t.

“I’m surprised Natasha isn’t here yet, actually.” Steve looked to Clint, raising an eyebrow. “She _is_ coming, right?”

“She’s got a late flight from Minsk with a shitty airline that’s always running behind. I’d say…” He checked his phone, nodding. “Yep, she just landed at ATL, so probably another hour to get here, depending on how many Ubers are around.”

“Ouch, that’s rough. Minsk, huh? Is she still teaching?”

“Yep.” Clint laughed, shaking his head. “Still can’t believe that after everything, she ended up being a dance instructor. I’m gonna use her as the example of parents knowing best when Laura and I have kids.”

More and more familiar faces were filling up tables around them. Steve saw Loki at a nearby table and nodded Thor towards his brother. The two of them couldn’t have gone on more divergent paths, while Thor was working in a scientific research field in the desert, Loki was in rainy England, splitting his time between stage acting and voice acting. Scott was at another table, showing wallet pictures to the small group there, Hope at his side. Had to be pictures of Cassie, his little girl from his short first marriage.

Tony pulled away and Steve watched him go to a group of three, recognized them almost instantly. Peter, Ned, and MJ, gone from gangly freshmen to adults in the intervening decade and a half. Someone else familiar walked up to them as Tony was talking, and Steve realized it was Bruce, looking every part the harried doctoral candidate he was, even with two doctorates already signed to his name. Biology and chemistry, working on a third in medicine. He was aiming to cure cancer before he was forty, and stood a chance of succeeding. The 'stay in school' fifteen year plan seemed to have worked. As Peter and his friends walked away, another familiar face pulled Tony in for a short hug. It had to be Rhodey, Steve thought, wearing Air Force blues with medals on his chest.

Laughter at the door got his attention, another group of three coming together, a man and a woman flanking a second man on crutches. He recognized all of them immediately, grinned and stood up to greet them.

Sam, in his dress blues with his crutches tucked under his arms, Natasha and Bucky fussing on either side of him. Steve wrapped all three in a hug, stepping back and grinning. “You guys actually made it.”

“Yeah, I survived the drive here with _that_ psycho.” Sam pointed to Bucky with his crutch, making the other man laugh.

“And I happened to see Natasha at the airport and offered her a ride, because I am a fucking _gentleman_.”

“Charged more than an Uber, though,” Natasha added, grinning.

“You wanna walk back to Minsk, Romanoff?”

Steve shook his head, leading the three of them to the table, pulling out a chair for Sam to sit down. There were greetings and reintroductions all around, the noise level from them growing as Tony and Bruce rejoined them.

“Okay,” Steve said, pointing to Clint and Laura. “Spill it. Why are you Clint’s second wife?”

Clint groaned and Natasha laughed loudly. “Thank you, Laura, I love you.”

“Love you too, Nat. Even if your ex-husband supposedly doesn’t.” She nudged Clint, laughing softly as he tried to sink under the table. “So back when she was in college and he was in the Air Force, our dear Natasha realized she needed health insurance. And our dear Clint realized that military insurance was really good coverage and extended to spouses. So, they made an arrangement and basically _forgot they did that_ for almost a decade. Clint gets out of the Air Force with his pilot’s license and moves outside of Indianapolis to commute to and from the cargo hub at the airport there. Natasha finishes college, moves around the world some, and settles in--somewhere in eastern Europe, you moved a _lot_ in those years.”

“Probably Helsinki or Tallinn, back then.”

“Right, let’s say Helsinki, it’s funnier. So there’s Clint, flying cargos all week and basically only using this big old farmhouse he has to sleep on weekends, but one day he comes to the local farmer’s market, meets a farmer’s daughter, and it’s a romance novel from there.”

“Hell yeah it is,” Clint added in.

“Until these two star-crossed lovers go to the county clerk to get a marriage license and learn that one Clinton Francis Barton already has a marriage license on file.” Laura grinned and Clint blushed an even deeper red. “So we end up having to arrange an international flight to get Natasha into town the next day, so that she and Clint can get a divorce so he and I can get married that weekend.”

“And that’s how my ex-wife ended up being one of the people to witness for me when I got married.” Clint snickered, reaching over and squeezing Natasha’s hand briefly. “We would have invited more of you, honest, but Laura and I decided we’d rather keep it small and private. Just her family and Natasha.”

“So really, just both our families,” Laura added, leaning into Clint as he wrapped an arm around her. “It does make for a funny story, though.”

“I’m just glad neither of you were _that_ mad at me. It could have gone way worse. Like… you guys remember that guy that was dating both of Coach Thanos’ daughters?”

The table broke into laughter, into stories and memories from their high school days. Steve looked over to Bucky across the table, joining in just as animated with tales from their youth.

There was an open bar at one end of the room, and he excused himself to go get a drink, taking a sip from his beer bottle and surveying the crowd. Teachers gathered at a set of tables, faces he recognized--Ms. Danvers and T’Challa, Mr. Killmonger, even Nurse Strange and The Ancient One. Principal Fury, looking as intimidating as ever, even though they were both adults, and Vice Principal Hill, also looking damn terrifying. Steve moved over near the DJ, who had regained control of his sound system and was playing [something](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NdYWuo9OFAw) reminiscent of high school. Of what little high school Steve had experienced, anyways.

There was a table set up, with a cake and a large card, a blow up picture of the cast from the musical. Signatures decorated it, just like Steve remembered from his yearbook, and he picked up a marker, quickly adding his own name. His eyes scanned the picture, finding his smiling face in the crowd, looking so young and hopeful. They’d all been young, then, with only dreams in front of them.

“Did Clint and Natasha ever admit that they’d staged it?” Bucky’s voice beside him made him jump, and Steve turned as Bucky signed the poster. 

“I don’t think they ever did, no.”

“Bastards.” Bucky laughed, capping his marker and pointing. “You practicing your autograph signature?”

Steve flushed, shaking his head. “More like my contract signature. Just get it over with as quick as possible.”

“I know how that feels.” They’d both been in freelance and short term contract work since college, Steve with graphic design, Bucky with written ad-copy. It was soulless, but it afforded them time to shop their passion project while still being able to eat and keep a roof over their heads. Bucky turned, looking over the crowd. “Got my outline for the next one in by the deadline, you get your sketches in?”

“Yeah, before I left this morning. I don’t know how you can work in a hotel room, Buck.”

“Sometimes the change of scenery is nice. Ash got me those advance copies, they were being delivered to the lobby when I left to pick up Sam at the airport. Should we hand them out now, or wait?”

Steve considered it, looking over the crowd. This was about Mr. Coulson, not them, but… “Maybe we try to do it quietly. I don’t want anyone to miss getting their copy, but I don’t want to overshadow the real point of the party. Did you send Brock his?”

“Yeah, but it won’t get to Guam until next week. Carrier said that they weren’t sure the exact day, really depends on what the on-base mailroom does, but he _might_ have it before it’s publicly available.”

That decided it. He grabbed a marker, slipping it into his pocket. “Then let’s hand them out now.”

The two of them quietly excused themselves from the party, went out to the parking lot and Bucky’s rental car. He opened the trunk, opening up the case in the back--advance copies of _The Vindicators_ , volume 1. It’d been a silly collaborative project back in college, but they’d both fallen in love with the characters and the premise; a band of best friends by day, a team of vigilante superheroes by night. Most of those characters were based on people currently inside, like Natalie Rushman aka Red Knife, a bassist and spy who could play any song and blend in to any crowd. Her signature red bass was equally as well-recognized as her counterpart’s signature red bladed knife.

Together they signed almost a dozen copies with the pilfered marker, carrying them back inside and back to the table. Steve cleared his throat, getting their little group’s attention.

“Uh, Bucky and I have been… working on something, pretty much since college, and it’s going to premier at New York Comic Con next weekend, but… we wanted you guys to have it, too. Just don’t go spoiling this on the internet, okay?”

“No, seriously, don’t. Our agent will literally kill us if this gets leaked,” Bucky added, passing out copies. 

Everyone at the table took their book, turning them over, flipping through them. Steve held his breath as Natasha began to read from page one, waiting.

Her eyes flicked up to him and she snorted, closing the volume and gazing at the cover again. “Story by James Barnes, Art by Steve Rogers. Your names in print.”

“Reached for the stars and managed to grab one.” Bucky slung his arm over Steve’s shoulder, grinning widely. “We’re signed on for a three volume series opener, but if it goes over well, there’s potential for more. No more soulless advertising jobs for us. Hopefully.”

“Sheesh, I shake up the smartphone industry, and _they’re_ the superstars.” Tony laughed, nodding to them. “Congratulations, you two. Hey, Morgan, you got a new bedtime story starting tonight.”

There was plenty more to the evening, plenty of toasting and roasting for Mr. Coulson, a recreation of the group picture from the musical. Food and drink and dancing, conversations that lasted late into the night. By the time they headed back to the hotel, Steve was exhausted and more than a little drunk--thank god Bucky was driving their rental car--but he was in a good mood.

He flopped into his bed with his pants still on, looking over as Bucky came out of the bathroom where he’d been changing for sleep. Steve grinned into the pillow, reaching out his hand. “Hey.”

“Hey to you, too.” Bucky took his hand, fingers warm in his. “D’you wanna take your pants off before you go to sleep, or wake up with them all wrinkled?”

“I’m gettin’ there, I’m gettin’ there… Bucky?”

“Yeah, Steve?”

Fighting down a yawn, he squeezed the hand in his before letting it go slowly. “‘M real glad I met you.”

Bucky was quiet for a moment, before he reached over, gently patted Steve on the shoulder. “Me too, buddy. Me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I saved every song (and meme!) in this fic into a playlist on youtube. Thanks to Holst it's over two hours long! Anyways, you can listen to the entire thing here: [Mean Grease: The High School Musical: The Playlist](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLK1DW_P83MAQcBIZaRrOmn_r-VJplriIu)
> 
> Also if anyone is interested, I've been considering reviving my dreamwidth account and posting my notes from this story there (as well as possibly being slightly more socially active in the fandom). I'll update with a link if there's interest in that!
> 
> <3 thank you so much for reading and enjoying, and I hope to see you in the next story!


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